Love Must be a Sin
by SevLovesLily
Summary: Medieval!AU: Arthur is the eldest son of the King of England and next in line for the throne, and Francis is an ordinary peasant lucky - or unlucky? - enough to be asked to teach Arthur to speak French. Just how it is that he happens to be the one man extraordinary enough to capture Arthur's heart, no one could ever explain.
1. If it suits you

**I know adding this story is going to make it so my highschool!Hetalia fic will updated less often, but I simply couldn't get this idea out of my head. The idea mainly came from me watching _The Lion in Winter_, in which Richard the Lionhearted is portrayed as gay for King Phillip II, who was the king of France (which is widely argued to be true). It's actually an excellent movie, and I definitely suggest you watch it.**

**The time period is the late 13th century—I wanted to make it before the tension that caused the Hundred Years' War really started. Also, it will only be somewhat historically accurate, because the King at this time obviously didn't have a son named Arthur. But the general things and the little things will be accurate. **

**I think I may include one or two background pairings, depending on how I choose to go about doing this story. We'll have to wait and see. Until then, I hope you enjoy the first chapter! ^_^**

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Grass was surprisingly a very comfortable thing to lie on. Not exactly surprising for Arthur, who knew this fact and had known it for a while, but just surprising in general for someone who knew quite a bit about the world.

Strange, too, considering he was the son of a king; he slept on the finest mattresses one could get in England in this day in age—straw packed together within a covering of soft furs, and if he wanted, he could get servants to get on their hands and knees on the floor for him to rest his feet upon, and yet Arthur strongly preferred grass—the grassy clearing he was lying on at the moment, to be precise. The ground wasn't too hard but it wasn't very wet either, and it was hit by just the right amount of sun and was a good enough distance from the lake that the air had a nice, yet indescribable smell to it.

It was his time in this secluded area away from the town and the castle that Arthur liked best. He liked being closer to nature than other people; he liked relaxing in the grass and resting his head on the ground to listen to the soft hum of the earth, and he liked being near where the faeries were.

The faeries, after all, were the only ones he could really call his friends. His father, mother, and brother were all so annoying and displeasing to be around… and they were quite hurtful towards him about his eccentricities. As a nearly grown man, he supposed he should have been able to take those jives about the fact that he'd probably have been sent to a mad house at a young age if he wasn't part of the royal family and how he spent too much time alone…. And he did pretend to, but they honestly did hurt.

But the faeries never did that. They all liked him, and that made him happy. Arthur rarely smiled when he was not with his faerie-friends….

When the sun was a little less than three-fourths of its way across the sky, a high-pitched buzzing sound whizzed past his ear and snapped Arthur out of his day-dreaming, and he knew at once what it was. Immediately smiling widely, he rolled over onto his back so he could see the three-inch tall faerie flying above him.

"Ah, Tinker! You came to visit me!" greeted Arthur cheerfully, watching her tiny little wings flap as fast as a butterfly's and the glittery dust it emitted, still finding the sight as mesmerizing as the first time he ever saw it. "Did Cherami and Lilley not come with you?" He frowned, wondering where the other two of the faerie trio were.

_"Well, they're a little… busy with something,"_ said Tinker in her tiny voice, giving a girlish giggle that created a brief shower of faerie dust from her wings. _"But that's why I came, Arthur; I wanted to tell you something!"_

Thoroughly intrigued now, Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position so he could look at Tinker properly. He blinked and opened his eyes a little wider.

"Well, what is it, then?"

_"They've… well, they've found a _unicorn_,"_ she told him in an excited whisper, giggling again.

"A unicorn? Really?" said Arthur in pleasant surprise. "I didn't think any lived around here…."

_"Yes, they're quite rare this close to humans…. It's a young one, so we think it might be lost. But you've got to come see, Arthur!"_

"Are… are you sure my presence won't scare it off, Tinker?" He frowned slightly in uncertainty.

_"Of course it won't!"_ she assured him, though it was hard for a tiny voice like hers to sound reassuring. _"It'll sense the magic in you, just like we have. Come on!"_ Tinker then flew downwards and tugged on his collar, and her impossible strength (well, magic made it possible, of course) actually pulled him up a bit as she flew upward.

"Okay, I coming," he laughed, feeling himself be lifted, "you don't need to—"

"Oi, there you are, jerk-Arthur!"

The unexpected voice surprised Tinker, who immediately gasped, said something in the faerie language, and flew away. Arthur fell an inch to the ground as her hands released him, and he let out a soft "_Oof_" at the mild impact. Then, scowling, he turned around and saw what looked like a much smaller version of himself but with darker hair running up.

"Talking to faeries, were you, lunatic?" the boy continued, slowing to a stop in front of him and so carelessly stepping over a Brownie-hole.

He was angry enough at his brother for ruining a once-in-a-lifetime chance for him that he didn't know quite how to express it. _"You idiot, I was just about to go see a unicorn!"_ was definitely not a good thing to say if he wanted to keep himself from being ridiculed or thought crazy even more.

"What do you want, Peter?" demanded Arthur, still scowling.

"Father wants you," the younger boy said with contempt. "He told me to come fetch you, but that was at least an hour ago, because I nearly got lost finding this place!"

"Yes, well, that's the point of the place, isn't it?" Arthur wrinkled his nose irritably, thinking, _So gits like you—or anyone but me, for that matter—can't come here._ "What does Father want me for?"

"Why should I know? Just come, or he will be angry with both of us. And I'd rather not be scolded because of _you_, jerk."

"Hmph. _Fine._" Deeply upset that he'd have to leave the unicorn behind, Arthur pushed himself up and stood up, brushing the bits of grass and dirt off of his tunic. He knew that he'd probably have his mother nag at him later for not trying to keep clean, as "it wasn't _proper_ for a person of such high standing to roll around in the mud like a pig"—as if that's what he was even doing, but he didn't care. He had heard those complaints a thousand times already, anyway.

Frustrated, Arthur started heading back in the direction of the castle, through the sparsely placed trees and down to the path that led to the gates. He hurried up and got ahead of Peter, since he hated his brother and would by no means let him take the lead, frowning ahead and wondering what the hell his father wanted with him right now.

Once the castle was in full view and towering above them, Peter told him that their father had said he would be in the gardens and immediately after that, ran off in the direction of town. Arthur gave a small "Hn" to himself and vaguely wondered what business his brother had being in town. But then he decided he didn't care.

Walking around the stone walls until he reached the expertly-cut grass and hedges and stone statues took a good five minutes, and when his father, who was sitting on a bench, caught sight of him, the man didn't look very happy. Once again, Arthur didn't really care. So he just huffed and continued walking toward him.

"For someone who wishes so determinedly to be King," his father started saying when he was within hearing distance, looking purposefully away from him, "you spend a great deal of time away from the castle and instead off, playing in the dirt like a child."

The teasing tone told him that he was not actually being scolded or punished at the moment, but he still didn't like it.

"I had finished my duties for the day, and I have no obligation to remain within those stone walls," he said firmly and somewhat bitterly, his overlarge eyebrows knitting together in a frown as he stepped onto a stone bench so he could get over it and onto his father's side of the path more quickly.

But then he noticed that his father wasn't alone—on the bench next to him was a man who had been hidden by a hedge moments earlier, and who seemed to be about the same height as Arthur. Despite his long, shoulder-length hair (long for a man, anyway), he was very obviously male—if not by his lack of a dress, then by his masculine face and the light goatee on his chin. His eyes did have a somewhat feminine quality to them, though….

And the first thing Arthur thought when he stopped in front of him and his father was _Good Lord, he's gorgeous._ He blinked and lightly shook those thoughts out of his head, not so much ashamed of them as he was simply wanting to avoid becoming embarrassed or turning red. The other man was smiling at him, though, so that was suddenly difficult for him anyway. Arthur had to frown and look to his father.

Before he could ask him who this man was, however, his father—more like the King, now—stood up and faced him, folding his arms.

"True, there is no obligation, but a future king must _behave_ like a king, and that means doing things that are worth your time, that are important," he told his son almost sternly. "One would think that you are not grateful for your home in this castle, with how little time you spend in it…. But that is not the matter at the moment. You are aware that our relationship with the French is growing unstable—and so it is important that you have the means to communicate with them if needs be..."

Arthur suddenly frowned more deeply, quickly realizing what this meant. "Are you saying you—?"

"I believe it is necessary for you to learn French, which is why Francis"—he gestured to the man next to him—"is going to teach you. I wanted you to meet him once before your first lesson tomorrow."

So that's who the man was. Arthur continued frowning, now looking back at the Frenchman. Though he felt like he was supposed to, being English and all that, he really didn't hate the French on principle—one of his faerie friends was French, even. Due to his lack of contact (willing, at least) with other people, he had yet to talk to any personally, so how was he supposed to hate them?

Briefly looking him over, Arthur saw that Francis was dressed fairly well—definitely not enough to look like a noble, but better than most peasants. He even looked like he'd taken a bath sometime in the past couple weeks, and his hair looked soft enough for Arthur to run one of his hands through—_No, stop it._

"I don't recognize him," he said dully, not realizing that he sounded a little rude—not that he would have cared if he did. But he figured it would have been better to come off as rude, anyway, if only to make sure no one suspected anything. "He's not one of our servants, is he?"

"No; he works in the village," his father told him. "I hired him, as he was the nearest choice on hand for someone who was fluent in French. He will teach you for two hours every day after your breakfast meal—which means no immediate running off to—wherever it is you go. And because I _know_ you will attempt to argue, I shall be leaving now." With that, he gave his scowling son a smirk and a _There, beat you_ sort of eyebrow-raise-and-nod, then started to walk past him. "Francis, you may stay to get to know Arthur—if he's even capable of communicating with other humans politely, that is—and then leave in due time. Good evening."

While the Frenchman was silent but for his returned "Good evening, your 'Ighness," Arthur turned around and glared at his father, sputtering as he got out of hearing distance and getting angry that he would just leave him alone with this stranger like that. Only now, it wasn't so much that he felt uncomfortable having to talk to someone he didn't know well that he felt uncomfortable being left to interact casually with… well, someone he found it almost difficult to look in the eye.

"What the devil is wrong with that old man, forcing me into this…?" he muttered under his breath, but not so quiet that Francis couldn't hear him. "I'm supposed to be _done_ with my bloody schooling…."

"You 'ate me zat much already?" said Francis, sounding quite cheerful about it. Then he laughed, and Arthur found it annoyingly beautiful. The Frenchman stood up from the stone bench and faced him, then lowered his head and held out his hand. "I actually would like to introduce myself personally, zough. I would 'ave spoken before, but I wouldn't 'ave wanted to disrespect your fazzer as much as you do."

…Was that actually an insult from this man who had hardly met him? Arthur couldn't help but raise his eyebrows slightly. Although, he supposed he wouldn't have considered it an insult… just teasing. Very bold teasing, however, considering he was of the royal family and could probably have Francis executed if he wanted…. That was true, though. He hardly respected his father at all.

"Well, he is the _King_, after all," said Arthur smoothly, looking hesitantly down at Francis's hand for a moment before taking it and giving it a brief shake before letting go, feeling both relieved and like he never wanted to let go as he did. "I suppose that proves that you're neither an idiot nor suicidal, which gives me slightly more faith in your teaching abilities. And that is a very _strong_ 'slightly.'"

Though he couldn't quite define it, the look on Francis's face after that made it seem almost as though he was enjoying Arthur's snarkiness.

"I understand why you would not trust me," Francis said calmly, moving a lock of hair out of his face, "but if you truly don't, zen you should at least trust your fazzer, even if you don't like 'im. As you said, 'e _is_ ze King, so 'e knows what 'e's doing. 'Is 'Ighness wishes me to teach you French, so zat is what I shall do. You seemed more adamant about not learning French at all a few moments ago, zough…."

Well, damn. He hadn't just been beaten at his own game, had he? People weren't supposed to out-snark him. That didn't happen. But… Francis had just turned a clever comment into a mere lie and therefore made _him_ sound like the jerk.

"A-and I still wish not to, but I'm mature enough to see when I have no choice in a matter…!" Arthur argued, feeling he was just barely saving himself. In the pause he took to fold his arms more tightly, the other man simply gave him a small, amused smile and a "Hn."

"I don't suppose you had much of a choice in doing this, though," he continued with a small huff.

Almost at once, Francis's smile grew and he let out a laugh. "Onhonhon, 'oo would dislike ze idea of an easy job in ze castle of ze _King of England_ for an 'alf pound of silver a week? I suppose 'e _would_ 'ave forced me if I 'ad refused… but I didn't."

So this man _was _going to be paid. Ah, well, Arthur knew his father was hardly as horrible to the rest of the people of England as he was to him.

"Oh, I highly doubt that I will make this easy for you, Francis," he half-sneered, half-joked, a light, devilish smirk on his lips, which the Frenchman mirrored—though he wasn't sure whether or not it was on purpose.

"_Non_, I didn't tsink you would," he said somewhat to himself, briefly glancing to the ground and then to the sky, where a bird was soaring overhead, black against the pewter-gray clouds. "I _'ave_ 'eard about you, you know." A smirk somehow charming enough to knock Arthur's heart back for a moment grazed his lips and left a soft glow in his eyes. Almost like magic, Arthur thought—except he knew magic, and that wasn't quite it. "Now, I tsink I would like to leave—may I? Unless, of course, you'd like to stay 'ere and continue talking wis me…?"

For a moment, Arthur was nearly tempted to say he'd rather talk to him, but he quickly shook those thoughts away again and decided it wasn't a good idea to remain in the presence of the source of the feeling in his chest he knew shouldn't have been there.

"No, you go ahead and leave," said Arthur as irritably polite as possible, waving a hand dismissively. "Good…"—he checked the sky and decided it wasn't all too fitting to finish that with _evening_—"night, Francis."

Without looking at him, Arthur began walking away, intending to take a walk around the garden before going back inside and assuming Francis would find his way to the exit. And he figured he was right, once he heard the other man's footsteps instead of protests.

"Good night, A—oh, what do you wish me to call you?" The footsteps stopped abruptly and Arthur could hear the sound of Francis's shoe twisting on the ground along with his voice. "I _will_ be your teacher, but you _are_ ze King's son all ze same… Prince Arthur? My Lord? …_Your soon-to-be-'Ighness_?"

Even though he hadn't been looking at the man, he could easily feel Francis's smug grin on his back at that last one. It was annoying. Although, he did like the idea of being called "My Lord"… even more so by Francis than he already did with the rest of the servants in the castle. And he didn't know why. But… after a few seconds' thought, he figured he didn't want that.

After his pause, Arthur turned his head so swiftly he could feel the _crack_ of his somewhat stiff neck and sought out Francis's face in the steadily growing dark. "You may call me Arthur, if it suits you."

_Not that that makes you my friend,_ he thought as he turned his head back around and continued walking. He wasn't quite sure whether those thoughts were true, though.

He wasn't quite sure of anything at the moment, really. Except of the fact that he had missed out on seeing a unicorn simply to meet the man he was being forced to allow teach him French, of course.

But he also wasn't sure whether he was still as upset about that as he had been earlier.

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**I really wanted to make Arthur call Francis "Frog," but that term actually wasn't coined until the 18th century... :/ I am trying to make this as historically accurate as I can, after all.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and I would love for you to review and tell me what you think! ^_^**


	2. Say it again

**Gah, I'm really sorry for the long wait. I really don't want to become one of those authors who takes several weeks in between chapters and gets a whole bunch of people upset... ** I also want to thank those of you who already have this story on their watch list. I literally already had five reviews about ten hours after posting the first chapter. That's freaking awesome. **

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It would have been a complete lie to say that Arthur had even nearly forgotten all about Francis and the French lessons he was supposed to have until then, but he was honestly rather surprised to see the man at the breakfast table in the dining hall the next morning.

It was strange, though, that he would have recognized the face and hair of a man he'd only met the evening before, especially from several feet away. But upon seeing it, Arthur stopped in his tracks for a moment, then continued forward with a purposefully heavier gait as he approached the table.

"Are—is he living here in the castle now?" he questioned his father, frowning deeply, and his voice got significantly more high-pitched, as it often did when he was confused or upset. He'd thought for a moment about asking Francis directly, but then he'd decided against it. The King seemingly ignored him at first, taking another drink from his goblet before turning his head and speaking.

"Don't be ridiculous, son; he's still got his own home and work, hasn't he?" The condescending tone and look on his father's face far from pleased Arthur, and his own frown deepened at it. "It is simply more convenient for him to be here for breakfast so that he can begin teaching you directly afterwards. You remember that that is how it was with your previous teachers, I'm sure."

Then, as infuriatingly casual as ever, his father turned back to face the table and resumed eating. He didn't need to give a stern "Now sit down and eat, Arthur," though, as his silence and air of authority did that for him. Arthur briefly looked to his mother to see if she had anything to add, any sort of derision against her husband for being so outwardly cold to his own son, but she simply gave him a _"Good morning, dear"_ sort of smile before going back to her own food.

Harrumphing bitterly, Arthur walked down the edge of the table to his seat—as the eldest son, he was technically supposed to sit directly to the left of his father and across from his mother, but he chose not to. Instead, there was always a seat in between him and his father, as he disliked sitting right under the man's line of sight, where he could pick out everything Arthur might have been doing wrong in terms of "behaving like a prince" and have more of an incentive to make comments about him.

Luckily, this was the one thing his father didn't get on his back about. Perhaps he didn't like sitting so close to Arthur, either.

As always, Peter was sitting across from him, next to their mother. And Francis was seated next to the brat, cutting into a bit of egg with an almost overly-polite posture, as though he was afraid to do anything to offend the King while sitting in his dining hall. And that _was_ a smart thing to do, Arthur supposed, even though he knew his father wasn't a crazed lunatic who would have a person hanged simply for looking at him the wrong way or being accidentally disrespectful—like certain rulers in the past had done.

He didn't realize that he'd been sitting there, leaving his plate and the food arranged around them untouched but instead just clutching the side of the table, until Francis glanced up from his plate, noticed, and smirked at him. Or it might have been a leer, or something in between. Either way, he somehow felt sure that it wasn't just a normal smile of greeting or anything—because if it was, then he was sure that he wouldn't have immediately felt his face grow hot in embarrassment or his heart try to jump out of his chest.

Quickly, Arthur scowled and grabbed a silver fork unintentionally rather hard, looking down and avoiding looking back up again. It was clear that Francis had very much respect (and likely also fear) for his father—but not for him. He didn't attempt to treat Arthur like he was going to be a King soon—hell, he even _dared_ look at him like that! That confused him for the several moments that he was chewing on a rather firm piece of meat (he didn't bother to think about what kind it was) until he thought that Francis already knew him too well. He wasn't going to be wary of his authority as part of the royal family because he somehow _knew_ that Arthur wasn't going to do anything to him. And he was apparently confident of that to the point that he would risk being hanged or at least punished in some other way. And—

Hold on just a god-damned moment, _why_ was he thinking so much about this? He'd just met the Frenchman _yesterday_, for God's sake…. Arthur scowled to himself tried to stuff his thoughts down his throat along with his breakfast and continued not to look up so that he didn't have to see that stupid French face. However, he could feel a slight vibration on the wood of the table and had the slightest feeling that Francis was suppressing laughter.

"Oh, have you changed your mind about not wanting French lessons?" he heard his father say not two seconds later, along with the soft clink of a metal goblet against the table that signaled he was about to say something derisive and therefore important. "Because you seem to be trying to finish your breakfast more quickly than usual."

Arthur didn't have enough time to decide whether or not he was going to respond to that—or even finish chewing what was in his mouth—before there was another small _clink_ of cutlery being set down, and—

"I _'ave_ been told I can 'ave zat kind of effect on people…," said Francis unexpectedly. Huh, Arthur hadn't thought he would want to talk at all during the meal…. But clearly, the man was at no risk of angering the King, as his father immediately laughed a little, along with his mother, who gave a small chuckle and glanced up at him for a moment. And of course Peter, who took every chance he got to make fun of him, but that was a constant in his life that went without saying.

His tone had been clearly joking, but Arthur could both hear and feel the truth in those words. Francis had indefinitely already had an effect on him, whether or not his brief scarfing down of food had had anything to do with it, and he was starting to dislike it more and more.

He was also wondering whether his family was laughing completely because of Francis's joke or also because they had teased him in the past about never seeming to have an interest in women. And he wanted to leave the table. But he wasn't going to, because he didn't want to potentially prove his father right.

"Not on me, you haven't," Arthur spat, frowning in apparent annoyance up at Francis. There. He just back-handed both of those comments and avoided more awkwardness or embarrassment on his part. _Take that, Father._

Rather than looking offended at all or even raising a discreet eyebrow, Francis smirked slightly wider at him before returning his eyes down to his plate. The mild hostility at the table was lost to more clinks and silence and was occasionally brought back by a glare or rude comment from Peter, who seemed to be mostly ignoring the fact that Francis was even there. Arthur actually found himself wishing that everyone would hurry up so he could leave and go start his French lesson, and not even in the way that he wouldn't have wanted to admit.

At some point, he was bored and anxious enough to just get today's lesson over with (and to be alone with Francis, but he wasn't consciously thinking that) that he decided he didn't care if anyone at the table decided to say something about it. Clearing his throat with a small cough, Arthur pushed his plate an inch away and leaned forward in his chair a bit.

"Ah, Francis, you're nearly finished—and I'm finished, so why don't we leave?—May we, Father?" he added with extra bitterness in his voice, turning to look at the man, who was already staring at him with an expression that he couldn't quite place.

"Yes, of course," said the King, giving a sharp nod. He sounded considerably more polite when it involved Francis than he did every time Arthur had ever asked to leave for personal reasons….

Raising his eyebrows and tilting his head down in a _"Let's go, then"_ fashion, he stood up and waved a hand to beckon Francis to come. It felt strangely satisfying to give him a command, however many he normally gave to the castle servants per day. He didn't bother looking behind him on the way back along the dining hall or through the archway to the corridors and up the stairs, as he had no doubts that the man was following him. Partly because he had to follow him and partly because Arthur could hear the other set of footsteps.

Only when he was in the corridor that led to his bedroom chambers did he look over his shoulder, at which he saw Francis close behind and briefly smiling at him. Arthur unconsciously adopted a different, more casual stride as he continued to his room and opened the door, unwittingly pausing a moment to hold it open for Francis but quickly righting himself and moving forward. Francis easily caught it and made his way inside anyway.

"So, how did you like it?" said Arthur casually as he grabbed the edge of a chair and turned around, giving a wry half-smile. He continued before Francis had a chance to fully raise his eyebrow in confusion. "Being able to sit in the royal dining hall. And over with my family, too—even our chef and personal servants have to sit at the other end, and my father allowed you to sit in a seat that normally would have been reserved for visiting relatives or representatives from other kingdoms…. I imagine it was a great stretch from your peasant life. As _charmingly calm_"—he didn't mean to put so much stress on the words—"as you may appear to be, I'm sure you're much less collected on the inside."

With that, Arthur leaned himself over the edge of the chair next to his writing desk, supporting himself by his folded arms and letting his upper lip curl a bit. Francis just gave him a look of amused understanding and nodded slightly, slowly releasing his grip on the edge of the door so that it closed smoothly and with such a slight creak that it almost had Arthur's heart racing again and—damn everything, Francis could even make _closing a door_ have an effect on him. That shouldn't have been possible. He didn't want it to be possible.

"True, it is razzer… _amazing_ of an experience to be eating wis royalty…," chuckled Francis, walking farther into the room. "But I 'ave to admit I've seen finer palaces back in France…. And I prefer my own cooking to your food. Well, English food in general, actually…."

As Francis pursed his lips in musing, Arthur was looking absolutely scandalized, though his lips were curled up in an ironic, twisted sort of smile in both shock and almost _impressed_ amusement that the man would dare say something like that. "What the devil's wrong with English food? And you think _you_ could cook better, you…" He shook his head and narrowed his eyes further, unable to come up with a suitable word to call hm. So he decided on not finishing the sentence. "And this isn't even a palace, git—it's a _castle_. That's textbook narcissism right there—are you going to be this condescending the whole time you're teaching me?"

At Arthur's raised eyebrow and the dirty look on his face, Francis laughed. "We are all allowed ze right to 'ave pride for our 'omeland, non? Eizzer way, I am not being condescending. I believe _you_ are ze one reacting too 'arshly, Arthur…. Now, do you wish to begin ze lesson? Believe it or not, I cannot stay all day, and I'd razzer not risk your fazzer being angry wis me."

The way he'd said that, you'd think he was looking for pity. And strangely enough, Arthur did have some. Enough to the point that he wasn't planning on just taunting the man for the next two hours and wasting his time. Of course he had his own things to do….

"He'd more likely punish me," Arthur admitted, standing up straight and walking over to the corner of the room to grab a spare chair and bring it over to sit next to the other one. "My father may be a king, but he's only dangerous if you fear him. He's not easily offended unless it's me offending him, so you needn't worry." Part of him wondered why he was giving the Frenchman advice, but the rest of him easily decided that he simply hated his father far more than he could ever wish to hate Francis—or anyone else, for that matter.

After bringing the chair around and sitting in it, he looked over to Francis through his peripheral vision with an annoyed and expectant expression. Quickly reading Arthur's _"Let's get this over with"_ face and getting the hint, he sat down as well, across from him.

Then, as though to contradict himself and everything he was putting forth, Arthur abruptly said, "Firstly, I'd like to know—have you ever actually taught anyone anything before?"

"Professionally? Non," Francis told him, leaning against he desk and smirking slightly. Arthur could count the amount of times this morning he'd gotten that look…. "I 'ave taught my younger sister to cook, zough…." His smirk grew wider at Arthur's sudden frown. "But… I am obviously fluent in both English and French, so I don't tsink it's your place to criticize—especially when I 'aven't even begun teaching you anytsing."

"Hey!—I've bloody studied Ancient Latin and Greek, so I'll criticize if I want to, and you can shut your foul French mouth!" Arthur retaliated, accidentally raising his voice a bit too much and getting too visibly angry. In truth, he was more annoyed than genuinely upset, but he could react however damn much he wanted to.

What added to his frustration was that he could clearly read what was in Francis's eyes as the man gave him an odd look—_My, you have quite the temper, don't you?_ But he didn't know whether the reason that Francis hadn't just said it out loud was that he'd actually gained more respect—or fear—for him, or if he simply didn't feel like adding fuel to the fire.

"If you actually want to _begin_ now, Arthur…," said Francis in mock exasperation. He paused to check around the desk for a marked candle, and when he found one, he took one of the normal candles from the wall nearby and lit it, then carefully set it aside. Arthur realized that he was doing all this without even asking for permission to use his things, but he also realized that he didn't mind.

"Alright, zen," Francis began, looking back to him. "I suppose I should ask you what you already know of French, if only to make tsings easier for me."

Rolling his eyes slightly (_Once again, the narcissism…,_ he thought), Arthur boredly leaned the side of his head onto his fist and said, "_Oui, bonjour, et non_." Those were the simplest of words that he was sure every child even under Peter's age knew, and for a reason that even he wasn't yet sure of. He supposed it was just one of those things that were common knowledge in England.

To his surprise, Francis immediately laughed. "_Mon dieu_, your accent is terrible…. Are you even trying?"

Arthur scowled. "Well, of course not—why would I want to imitate your stupid accent? You can understand me either way, can't you?"

"It's easier and more proper if you actually _use_ ze accent, zough…," he said teasingly. "And I will not stand for my language being spoken wis such contempt. Say '_bonjour_'—say it again."

Noticing that that was the first direct order he'd been given by Francis (and not quite yet sure how he felt about it), Arthur hesitated a moment. Then, still looking bitter about it, he complied and actually did put forth effort to say it "correctly."

"Mm, better," Francis commented with low enthusiasm. Seeming to first think about it for a couple seconds, he lifted his right hand from his lap and reached over—and Arthur didn't realize what he was doing until he felt the other man's hand on his face and cupping around the bottom of his chin. A thousand possibilities of what was going to happen next flashed before his eyes, which widened and met with Francis's in shock and panic.

It certainly wasn't fear of being hurt that drove his panic, as he felt no instinctual urge to reach for the dagger at his waist or even move his arms at all—but rather fear of something worse. He was suddenly very aware that a lot of his blood must have risen to his face, mostly because of the amused eyebrow-raise Francis gave him.

"W—get your hand off of my…," he managed to say (or _start_, anyway), as that was the only thing he could even think to say, but he trailed off unintentionally and then Francis kept him from picking it back up.

"Whezzer or not you want it, your accent needs 'elp," was all he told him for the moment. While Arthur's brow slowly (but not completely) unfurrowed and he continued staring in panic at the man across from him, Francis kept one finger pressing on the top of his throat and molded the rest to a certain shape on the sides of his mouth. "Alright, now say it."

He couldn't help but take another second of silence to just stare at him, as his heart was briefly pounding in his ears and the surprising softness of Francis's hand was distracting—but Arthur then decided to obey, though he still hesitated. "…_Bonjour_."

"Zair, zat wasn't so 'ard." Francis smiled and let go of Arthur's face, pulling his hand back—and no, Arthur wasn't feeling any disappointment at all that that hand had left his face. Definitely none at all.

After that was more of the real lesson, and for the rest of the two hours Arthur kept finding himself in between disliking French (and his father for making him do this) enough to just not care about any of what Francis was saying and actually trying to pay attention because he both wanted to get it all over with and to be a good king when the time came.

By the time the flame in the candle had burnt down the wax to the length of two hours, a few sheets of parchment and a considerable amount of ink was used up. Having been checking the candle every other minute, Arthur wasted no time in telling him that it was over and that he could leave.

"I 'ope I 'ave done well for my first day, Arthur…," said Francis jokingly as he stood from his chair and stepped toward the door.

"Yes, yes, I suppose for a man who has never taught professionally before… you're decent," Arthur huffed, remaining seated but folding his arms and looking up at him. "Do you remember how to get back down to the entrance hall?"

"I'm afraid I don't…." Francis adjusted his tunic and looked at him sheepishly. "Would you mind—?"

"Yes, fine—I need to leave the castle myself, anyways," Arthur added, anxious not to make it sound as though he cared about the man's well-being. And it was true, anyway—he did want to leave the castle…. So he stood up as well and led Francis back down the way they came with another huff and several minutes of silence. They didn't happen to meet his father or brother on the way down, though, so his composition gradually became less stiff.

Shortly before they reached the front gates, Arthur slowed his pace somewhat and turned back to Francis, who gave him a curious look.

"So," he began, a slight echo of his voice softly repeating it after him and a glint in his eyes. The rest of his words were spoken smoothly, somewhat meticulously. "How does it feel to have put your hands on the neck of a prince and not be hanged for it?"

As the man caught up to him, Francis gave a short look of understanding before another smirk grew upon his face. He looked to his upper right for a moment, indicating that he was taking time to think. And he had his answer, along with something extra (which Arthur couldn't quite place) to his smirk once he stepped right next to the prince in question and began actually walking with him:

"Hn… satisfying."

* * *

**In case anyone didn't know or got confused, before mechanical clocks were used, a lot of people had 'candle clocks' that had markings for each hour, and it would take an hour to burn down to the next mark. They were really useful for telling the time or keeping a countdown indoors, where a sundial wouldn't have worked. (Not that I can exactly speak from experience...)**

**Also, I'm aware that like most other languages, French has evolved and likely works rather differently than it does now. But so has English, and it's not like I can go research High French (not without getting very confused, that is), so let's just pretend for the sake of the story that what little specifics I do go into as far as the French that Arthur's learning goes are accurate. We can just see it as a modern translation of a story that happened a long time ago, right? (They do that a lot with Ancient Greek plays... The English translation of Oedipus I read was definitely too modern to be completely accurate.)**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I would love it if you reviewed! ^_^**


	3. Nothing like anyone I've ever met

**Sorry again for taking so long... But I posted a really long FrUK oneshot a few days ago that you guys (assuming you're FrUK fans...) would probably like. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter. **

* * *

The days of being taught French repeated; but none of them had been anywhere near the same. Not in the sense that Arthur was progressing quickly in his study or that different things were going on after the morning lessons were over, either.

It was because every single day since the first lesson had been… _compelling_ so far. There was always something different to argue with Francis about and cause them to lose a considerable amount of time with their lessons, always something to ask the man because Arthur really couldn't help but be curious (even if it was in sort of a contemptuous way), and always the raw, unexplainable interest he had in Francis and which would _not_ go away. Not a single lesson went by that the Prince could honestly call _boring_.

That was odd, though, for Arthur was quick to get bored of people. He preferred isolation, and he'd always hated having other people visit the castle for whatever reason because he simply got much too tired and annoyed by their presence and just wanted them to leave so he could be alone again. But Francis… he wasn't tired of him. Yes, that man was annoying and sometimes rude and infuriatingly fearless with the kind of remarks he made and how he actually _retaliated_… but Arthur had no desire to push him out of his life or even to skip a French lesson one day. Nor did he feel quite the same relief of being rid of other humans when he retreated to the woods and his faeries everyday, anymore.

_It's just got to be that it's a new thing,_ he figured. Francis hadn't been around that long, so that's why he wasn't bored yet. _Perhaps if I give it time, it will just wear off…._

_"What will?"_

Oh dear, had he just said that out loud?

Either that, or faeries could hear thoughts. And Arthur was sure that they couldn't, because if they could, they would have responded to some of his thoughts before now. He quickly looked up at the little red-haired faerie and the few others flying a foot in front of his face, both mentally berating himself for having been so careless to speak his thoughts without realizing it and trying frantically to think of a lie.

"Er—my headache," he told her, doing his best to keep his voice steady and not make it obvious that that wasn't true (because it wasn't at all; his head felt fine). Faeries weren't exactly the smartest of creatures in that area—they weren't very prone to thinking negatively about anything, and from his past with them, Arthur knew they weren't capable of complex thinking or analysis. But it was just in case.

And they believed him at once, anyway—_"Oh, 'ow dreadful!"_ said Cherami, the one French faerie among the group that had been flying gracefully around him as he walked. _"Is it a very bad one?"_

And… now he felt kind of bad. As manipulative of a person he could be when it came other _people_, he didn't like tricking faeries, who were actually his friends. But he really didn't want to tell them what he'd really been thinking out loud about.

"No, not terribly bad…. Just the sort that I don't usually get, is all." That held much more truth than before.

_"Oh—well, you don't have to wait!"_ piped up the red-haired one, who'd spoken first to snap him out of his silent musings. _"We know herbs that will help, and they grow not very far from here!"_

The other faeries nodded enthusiastically in agreement and they all flew off without another word, leaving trails of faerie dust or mist in their wakes. Arthur sighed as he watched them leave, not sure whether or not he was glad to be suddenly left completely alone with his thoughts.

Well, he could never be completely alone. There was nature around him, and both the forest and the lake were inhabited by nymphs, at the very least. He could even sense them now, flitting from tree to tree and giggling amongst themselves or poking their heads out of the water and then ducking back down if he looked over. Arthur smiled a little to himself, appreciating the playfulness of the creatures.

But then he decided that he was glad they only wanted to tease him right now; all he honestly wanted was to take his time walking and then close his eyes for a bit and take a deep breath in and try to forget about Francis right now, since it was becoming rather hard to do so at the moment.

He _had_ told the faeries (and any other gathering creatures who wanted, for some reason, to listen) about Francis…. Well, he'd had to explain why he wouldn't come in the mornings anymore, hadn't he? And of course Arthur had complained a bit about him and said how he was annoying and whatnot—but he refused to go into detail or any further than that. He wasn't going to mention the almost painful feelings in his chest or the odd interest that occasionally captivated him or the pang of disappointment he felt whenever the lessons were over.

Nearly three weeks, it had already been, and Arthur was finding it more and more painful not to say anything—to not even _know_ exactly what it was that he was keeping a secret. So he sometimes found himself relaxing in his usual spot and just pounding the ground with his fist for no apparent reason and ignoring the physical pain it caused. And other times, pacing around, whether in the forest or his personal chambers or in the stone pathways of the royal garden, just muttering random French phrases to himself—

He had to check himself just then to make sure he wasn't doing it again. Unfurrowing his brow and looking up from the ground, he waited a couple seconds. There wasn't any noise coming out of his mouth at the moment, but he couldn't be sure whether or not there had been a few seconds ago. So he decided to just forget about it.

In desperation to find something else to focus on, Arthur bent down almost mechanically to pick up the first flat-ish rock he saw and then throw it out on the lake with a sharp flick of his wrist. Instead of skipping, though, it met the water with a dense splash.

Well, he knew he knew he was horribly unskilled in skipping rocks.

But what kind of prince couldn't even skip rocks?

Arthur was given no more than a minute to dwell on that somewhat depressing thought when the faeries all returned, each carrying a bundle of some sort of herb in her arms. One of them had to smack him on the arm to get him to notice they were there.

"You're ba—oh, you really didn't need to get that much for me…." He hated the thought of making them go to a whole bunch of trouble.

_"You can have too little, but you can never have too much,"_ said Tinker, smiling and clicking her bare feet together to raise herself a little higher in the air. Arthur smiled back, remembering being told the same thing several times before. It was one of the various value-things the faeries lived by.

While dropping the small bundle in his hand, Tinker let out a soft giggle that was unlike her usual giggle of cheerfulness—but Arthur couldn't quite place what the difference was. And immediately after, the other two faeries started giggling too, though they seemed to be trying to suppress it.

"What're you giggling for?" he asked them bluntly, narrowing his eyes and frowning curiously. They didn't tell him but just flew a little further away—seemingly uncontrollably—and giggled harder, so he pressed, "What is it?"

He'd thought it might have been something that had happened on the way to getting these herbs or perhaps some joke amongst the faeries that he hadn't been let in on, but—_"Lilley saw you throwing a rock in the lake," _Cherami finally said in breaths between giggles, grinning up at him and covering half of her tiny face with her hands.

Half-feigned confusion overrode the sinking feeling that he knew where this was going. Or he just might have convinced himself to believe it couldn't possibly mean what half of him thought it meant.

"And—what's that got to do with anything?"

After a few more seconds of giggling, they all looked at each other, and Lilley said, _"We have to leave for today. Bye, Arthur!"_ And waving their little twig-sized arms, they all darted away and were soon out of sight.

Well, that had certainly been deliberate of them. Arthur couldn't blame them, though; it was in faeries' nature to be mischievous…. Although they certainly hadn't ever teased him quite that much.

He didn't waste much time staring in the direction they'd left before continuing along the bank of the lake, since he was nearly all the way around. At the same time, he looked down at the herbs in his hand and then carefully put it all into one of the pockets of his tunic, deciding to put some into some tea once he went back to the castle for supper.

Because he actually was starting to feel a bit of a headache.

* * *

Contrary to what his father probably thought, Arthur wasn't having a considerably difficult time learning French. Because, as little attention as he was paying to what Francis was actually trying to _teach_ him at times (which instead went to… other things), he wasn't an idiot, and he already knew Latin. And so that automatically made it easier for him to remember the gender rules and such.

In fact, he was sure that his time in having French lessons was going to be much quicker than it would have been if he had never learned Latin. Though he wasn't sure whether or not he saw that as a good thing.

Strictly speaking, he didn't see it as anything at the moment because his mind was once again not completely on the lesson. As always, Francis sat to the left of him at his desk, but with the angle of their chairs, they were nearly facing each other. There was a long roll of parchment taking up a lot of the space on the desk, and much of that was filled—and currently filling more—with Francis's writing.

He was writing out common words and what they meant in English—clearly, the theme today was nature. _Cloud_. _Sun_. _Grass_. _Water_. Francis obviously wasn't a language expert, because Arthur was sure that if he was, he would be making vocabulary for him to memorize in order of difficulty and not random themes.

But that didn't matter to him; not even the words' translations were mattering to him anymore, for he was somehow losing himself in Francis's handwriting. For a person below nobility, it was rather elegant… and fascinating to watch. While the rest of his body and posture gave off an air of boredom and contempt, Arthur's eyes followed the fluid motion of Francis's lightly tanned hand dipping the quill feather in ink and bringing it to the surface of the parchment to gracefully scratch out a word. The movements seemed to be much more fluid when he was writing a French word, as though he was even physically more comfortable with his own language…. And suddenly, inside his mind that hand was underneath his clothing and caressing his skin—

And that was where he forced himself to stop. Which, naturally, entailed scowling bitterly in self-retaliation for those thoughts and then internally groaning. A thought also broke free of his mind and came out of his mouth almost completely by itself—not that he wasn't grateful for the sudden provided distraction.

"Who taught you to write?" he asked in a half-intentionally rude manner, startling Francis out of his writing and forcing him to sit upward all of a sudden. All the questions he had asked the man so far, and _this _one had somehow only just left his lips….

"…Why do you ask zis out of nowhere?" said Francis, raising an eyebrow at him and speaking with an edge of irritation to his voice—but it sounded more like he was trying to imitate Arthur's speech pattern. Which both amused and annoyed him.

As much as he tried not to make himself obvious, Arthur couldn't help but just stare at him for a full second. He certainly wasn't going to explain that he'd been admiring how beautiful his handwriting was and wondering what he was doing with such elegant skills with a quill and ink—

"Because I've a right to ask what occurs to me and when it occurs to me, _Francis_," he settled for, speaking in a sharp tone that was the obvious cause for the other man's sudden lip-curl. "You're a peasant. It's dreadfully common for anyone not born into a noble family to be illiterate, so I'd rather like to know _how_ it is that you know how to write with so few mistakes." _And the elegant way that you do,_ he added in his mind and in his eyes, which Francis almost seemed to catch, by the way his own eyes flashed.

"Ah, Arthur, you wound me!" said Francis with mock-dramatic flair, setting down the quill feather and placing his hand on his chest. "'Ow _wrong_ you are to assume I was simply a peasant…. _Mon ami_, I am ze best you will find among ze _peasants_."

The leer he then gave him was typical—as Arthur had noticed in the past few weeks of lessons, anyway. Francis did that much too often for his own good, and it always annoyed Arthur to the point of wanting to smack it off his face. Which he occasionally _did_, but not now.

"So everyone else is below you, then?" he snapped, though a little amused, and Francis nodded and smiled wider.

"Everyone in England, anyway," he confirmed, leaning forward and making Arthur glance uncontrollably down at his lips for a split second. "It's not so much _me_ as it is zat ze French are superior to ze English."

His lip curling, he smiled almost viciously and said, "Tell that to me when I'm the King." Instead of retaliating, Francis just stared at him for a second and then chuckled a bit to himself, so he went on: "And if you claim that you are not a peasant, then what _are_ you, exactly?"

"I am Francis; no more to be said," he said smugly, smirking with half-lidded eyes.

Arthur considered this for a second, both on the inside and outside. With pursed lips and narrowed, non-admittedly impressed eyes, he looked Francis up and down as though meeting him for the first time again.

"I believe I can more accurately name what you are," he finally said, leaning back casually and making Francis raise his brow slowly. "A prick."

"An _'andsome_ prick," Francis corrected, laughing, as though purposely trying not to seem fazed by the insult in order to annoy him.

And—well, he couldn't argue with that. Not on the inside, anyway. Except _handsome_ wasn't quite strong enough a word—

"_Insufferable_ prick," said Arthur, correcting him back.

"No, zat's you." Francis pointed at him as he said it, and the Prince automatically smacked his inner forearm to make him drop his hand—but it landed first on Arthur's knee before going back to the desk. Letting out a small "Hn," he seemed to try to return to the actual lesson, finishing up the words he'd been writing before. But at the same time, he gave a last, small kick of revenge to the other's shin.

Realizing what he meant by it, Arthur narrowed his eyes again and smirked, his eyes focusing straight upon the man's profile, much of which was hidden by his hair while his head was at this angle. _You are nothing like anyone I've ever met…,_ he thought. And with his slightly malicious smirk, he moved his foot over to step on one of Francis's and pushed down, eliciting a grimace of pain out of him—

But then a strong knock from outside his door rang out, interrupting the still air of the room and making him lighten up on the pressure. Francis immediately looked over, glancing between him and the door, but Arthur stiffened slightly in irritation—or disappointment?—and hesitated a second before clearing his throat and saying, "Enter."

At once, the door opened with a long creak and one of the castle's servants walked in. She wasted no time in saying what she'd come to say, not even to glance at Francis and blush (as many of the female servants tended to do)—"Sire, your father bade me come tell you that he is waiting for you at the entrance of the castle and prepared for sword practice. He also suggests that you—um… become responsible enough to remember your duties along with your studies if you ever want to wear his crown—er… His Majesty's words, Sire, not mine," she added hastily at Arthur's glare.

Once she was finished, he realized what this must have meant and his head snapped over to the candle they were using to keep track of the lesson: It was at least halfway to the mark after the one they were supposed to stop at. Not only had he forgotten today was a Thursday, but he had also forgotten to check how far down the candle had melted at regular intervals. And Francis was at fault, for being so damn distracting.

"Shite," he muttered under his breath, scowling as he blew out the candle, took his foot off of Francis's, and stood up. "Yes, very well, you can leave now," he addressed the servant, not knowing her name but also not caring. She nodded and did as she was told, and then Arthur looked to Francis, who was still sitting and apparently just realizing he had stayed for too long.

"I haven't kept you away from something important, have I?" Arthur said, in actuality more concerned than his tone of voice let on.

"Not in particular, _non_," Francis admitted, making to stand up and push the chair in as well.

"It would have been your fault for not paying attention to the time, anyway…," he muttered to himself, but purposefully loud enough for the other man to hear.

"_Excusez-moi?_" Francis raised a scandalized eyebrow at him. "_You_ are ze Prince—"

"And _you_ are the teacher and thus responsible for the lesson, not me. Now, I—" Arthur remembered the sword practice and righted himself, forcing himself not to get caught up in this sort of thing. "I don't have anymore time to spare. Please leave and tell my father that I shall be ready and with him shortly."

"_Oui_," he agreed. "Also, study what I've written down at least a bit before tomorrow," he added with a smirk.

Arthur frowned, not looking forward to it, and extended his arm to briefly take Francis's hand in farewell. It was a common gesture that happened between anyone and everyone, but the simple touch of their hands still somehow had an effect on him, so a small shiver went up his arm.

"Tomorrow," he said casually, as though it was a routine thing for him—which it was, when he let go and Francis started toward the door.

The Frenchman kept his relaxed smile as he raised a hand and lightly touched Arthur's shoulder on his way past.

"Tomorrow," he confirmed.

* * *

As Francis pushed through the doors to the Entrance Hall, he wasn't at all surprised to be stopped by the King, who was waiting next to the front doors in his armor and with a sword and scabbard at his hip.

"Ah—where is Arthur?" he questioned at once without preamble, though he seemed to have originally thought the person coming through the door would be his son.

"I believe 'e is readying 'imself for sword practice, Your 'Ighness—'e should be 'ere shortly," Francis told him politely, coming to a stop a few feet in front of him.

The King frowned slightly and wrinkled his nose in thought—likely in that of his son. From what Francis had seen and heard and from what Arthur had told him, his father was a difficult man to please and always seemed to be disappointed with everything he did.

Francis was sure he was about to hear some of the complaints of a disappointed father (or hopefully just granted permission to leave the castle), but instead the King relaxed his expression somewhat and said, "I hope he's not impossible with you. I admit, however, I'm not very sure at all how you and Arthur have been getting along…. Pray tell, what do you think of him so far?"

The slight smile and glint in the King's eyes told Francis that the man probably expected him to say something bad. But he suddenly had the urge to contradict that, as he couldn't help disliking him a little more. With all the time he'd spent in the castle, he'd gotten to see the head of the kingdom as more of a person and less of a monarch, and there were plenty of things to dislike about him, especially considering that Francis always got Arthur's end of it.

He wouldn't have said something entirely negative about Arthur, anyway. He wanted to give an honest answer. So he raised his eyebrows and thought about it for a moment.

"Well… 'e is notsing like anyone I've ever met," he told the King, smiling slightly and wryly.

The laugh the man then let forth made Francis sure that he had only caught a small part of all that that had meant.

* * *

**Well, we've finally gotten to the point in the story where I have to include page-breaks. And we got a scene from Francis's point of view! I will continue to do those occasionally, but only when Arthur isn't with him.**

**Any guess what the faeries were giggling about? They may not be all that smart, but they can read feelings when it's those kind of feelings. /shot**

**Anyway, you guys have been awesome so far with your feedback (I mean, only _two_ chapters in and already ten reviews, eleven favorites, and twenty followers. That's amazing), and I'll really appreciate if you keep reviewing and telling me what you think. ^_^**


	4. Cannot get rid of you

**And after another two weeks of nothing for you guys, I present you with the latest chapter. Even though I have my reasons, I apologize. (For those of you who don't know, I have another continuous fic that I also work on. And I also uploaded an entire, eight-chapter GerIta fic during those two weeks, so... yeah.)**

**As a warning, there's a lot of religious stuff in the beginning. But since I'm trying to keep this as historically accurate as possible, and this is the 13th century, it's kind of an important thing to get into. And it _is_ important to the plot. I swear I'm not trying to do any religious propaganda or anything. (I'm not even a religious person at all.)**

* * *

Sunday was quickly becoming Arthur's least favorite day of the week.

Except it wasn't exactly quick at all, as the days had been going by rather slowly for the past three weeks. Since he'd met Francis, that is. This was only the third Sunday he'd had since the first French lesson, but it felt as though the first had been forever ago. He felt like he'd spent so much time with the man already… and he didn't know whether or not he should have been glad that the time _wasn't_ flying by.

And Arthur supposed it was blasphemous of him to decide, while in a church no less, that he hated Sunday. God's Day. But it was the one day that he didn't have a lesson with Francis because of the sermons taking place in the morning, and he had gotten so used to that man's presence that it felt very strange and somehow painful to not have a morning with him. He told himself the pain wasn't there, though, and that it simply felt _odd_ to him. That was it.

It wasn't as though he was extremely enthusiastic about Christianity, though. The majority of the involvement his own father had in it was constantly pushing to have more power than the Church—at least it wasn't like decades earlier, though, when there had been that schism and _three_ popes all the chaos and problems with the monarch and the Church…. Now, the King wasn't pushing quite hard enough to try to break them. Just to stay ahead of them (that was how his father often put it, anyway).

But Christianity and God and all that seemed to be making its return to the whole of the kingdom. The past few centuries had been rather dark times, Arthur knew, and he was lucky to have been born into the royal family while it was lightening up. He figured this would be easier for him to deal with when _he _was King.

In showing power over the Church, his father made sure to have private sermons for them. Of course, many monarchs were known to have their own, smaller church for just the royal family, but this was more of a statement than anything else as far as Arthur's father saw it. The royal family was separate from the Catholic Church, and they could do Christianity their way. Even if it was the same bible the Priest was reading from and the same cross that stood atop the building and also several places on the walls and the same God they were praying to.

This was one of the things Arthur still didn't quite understand about what his father did as the ruler of England and why he did it, but he wasn't going to question it. He'd already done so twice, and he didn't need another lecture from the man about why he was unfit to rule because of his "refusal to understand."

He wasn't going to complain, either, because he would still much rather have attended private sermons than one in the village church, where it would be crowded with people.

And so Arthur let himself fade back into attention at the Priest's words and gestures, not caring that he hadn't been listening for the past five minutes or so and therefore would probably be lost. As a Catholic and a Prince, he was supposed to be able to recite all of this by now—which he could (for a lot of it, at least), but he didn't see the point of making much of an effort right now. With the slight turn of his head, he could see his parents, as well as Peter, mouthing the verses as they were spoken. He wondered if they actually meant it or were doing it only by obligation.

Arthur's own mouth remained closed and his attention only half-latched on to the sound outside of his mind until a verse that he somehow hadn't expected to hear (despite the fact he _knew_ how the order of this went) was read from the large Bible on the Priest's podium up there.

"…For He told them, 'Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.'"

The Priest continued on, but the rest was lost to Arthur. Leviticus. He couldn't forget that. And every time he heard someone say it or merely thought of that verse, he felt his insides curl up in shame and pain and he didn't know whether he was upset with himself or upset with the Bible. He didn't know whether he wanted to use that verse to remind himself to try not to feel this way or if he wanted to argue with it, argue with God.

What he did know, however, was that his mother, father, and brother had all glanced at him for at least a moment when that verse had been read. And it made him want even more to sink into his seat and leave the Church and be seen by no one.

It had been the same for him in the past, but it was considerably worse now that thoughts of that nature actually brought up a single person in his mind. Arthur had never had relations with anyone, so he hadn't committed any sins like that yet… but Francis was immediately in his mind. He could suddenly very vividly imagine the man in bed with him, and he nearly had to hit himself to knock that thought out of his head.

_No, I cannot let myself succumb to those thoughts… especially not in a Church, Dear God…,_ he mentally urged himself, shifting slightly in his seat and hoping no one, particularly not the Priest, had noticed. At the moment, he was lucky because he was not reading from the Bible but instead going through the usual end-of-sermon words. They weren't always the same, but he could tell the nature of them. Arthur knew the tradition; he knew the gestures.

When it came time to bow their heads in prayer, Arthur was vaguely aware that now would have been a good time to ask God for the ability to stop having such unexplainable attraction to a man—a man that was annoying and insolent and unbearably arrogant for his social status and _French_, at that. But he simply couldn't bring himself to pray for something like that. Instead he prayed for the ability to conceal it better.

Even in his eagerness to leave, he almost didn't notice when his father first stood up to walk back down the aisle in the small, private church—but when he did, he wasted no time in following. He could still feel eyes on him, and he was sure they were just Peter's. But he didn't say anything—and neither did anyone else—as they left.

Normally, Arthur would have followed his family back into the carriage that was waiting for them outside with one of their servants and then ridden back to the castle (which really wasn't that far of a walk, but royalty rarely walked), and then would have walked to his usual spot in the forest or near the lake. But he wasn't looking to relax at the moment—he didn't want silence, he didn't want room to just _think_. He didn't want to think about anything. Because doing that right after this particular sermon would only confuse him more, and he didn't want that.

So the only other option was to be where there were people, where there was noise. Where he would get annoyed about everything and he could just focus on that rather than anything else.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" his father asked when he began to upon his decision without saying anything. He then stopped in his footsteps, but didn't turn around.

"To the village," said Arthur bluntly. He could practically feel the frown on his father's face at his distinct lack of respect.

"What business do you have there today? I don't think I should get my hopes up in believing you intend to finally find a woman to court…." There was a small laugh in his voice right there, and Arthur became considerably angrier—and then even more when Peter said, just loud enough for him to hear,

"Or that it would even be a woman…."

Arthur said nothing for a moment, but he then swiftly turned halfway around and said, "I desire to court no one." The only one not holding his glare at that second was his mother, but he still refrained from looking at even her as he turned back around and headed down the road to the village without another word to them.

Soon, the relative silence and hills on either side of him stopped, and they were replaced with sparsely placed huts that gradually got closer together—but not terribly close, even when he was walking directly in the wide dirt road of the town.

It had been forever since he'd been in town—and walking alone rather than riding in a carriage, no less. Hell, he wasn't sure if he'd ever just decided to take a walk through this place. Arthur wasn't used to having this many people around him, and the effect was exactly what he'd expected: He was getting more and more annoyed by the second. There were very few buildings of actual stone, and the smell of the air was tinged with smoke and also dirt and grime. Most of the peasants around him likely hadn't bathed in over a full lunar cycle, and he figured that was the cause of some of the stink. And also the animals dropping their feces everywhere.

Plenty of people had small squares of fence to keep a few pigs or chickens or a cow—and there was the occasional person riding through with a horse. There were peasants trading fruit and bread so dirty-looking he wouldn't dream of touching it at every turn, as well as merchants selling food or furs or other things at what seemed to be the front of their homes. In theory, no one should have been working because of it being a Sunday, but, as he'd mused earlier, they'd only recently started leaving the dark times, and Christianity wasn't more prominent in these people's lives than the struggle to survive. Gold and silver couldn't be traded without work, and they weren't going to stop just for God, who clearly wasn't going to help all of them if he hadn't already.

_So this is what the peasant life is like…, _thought Arthur ironically. Of course, he'd already known that. But he hadn't seen it up close in quite a while, as it was almost never necessary for him to go into town or even anywhere near it.

The combined noise of peasants talking and trading and carts moving and animals making their distinct noise, along with the stares (and occasional bows) from people he passed who must have quickly realized he was the Prince and were wondering why he was there, were just enough to keep his mind occupied and away from confusion. Though Arthur truly found no interest in it, he also let his eyes wander a little to the outdoor shops and homes.

He didn't care whether or not anyone bowed at his presence, but he didn't try to tell those who did that they needn't, either. Not just as a Prince, but as a person, he was rather apathetic about the feelings and well-beings and anything-elses of other people.

As Arthur turned a corner, he passed a Blacksmith and suddenly had about ten nearby men (including the Blacksmith himself) staring at him—he supposed they were wondering if the Prince had come to have his sword sharpened. But then they must have been confused once he realized he didn't have it on him (well, he wasn't going to take a weapon into a church, was he?). And then Arthur figured that they might also have been wondering if he was looking for potential knights, especially because of the hope he noticed in some of their eyes.

No one dared ask him, though; if there was anything he was famous (or _infamous_, if that's how you wanted to put it) for, it was for being cold to so many people. He was the _lone_ Prince… and he didn't need anyone. He didn't ever want to talk to anyone, and everyone knew it. Probably from the help of his father.

And as though to contradict those thoughts right there, Arthur walked a little further and caught sight of an unmistakable face a ways ahead. The one person he _did_ rather enjoy talking to, however much he would always tell both himself and the other that he didn't.

Francis was obvious by the hair and the tunic that stood out from everyone else's (because of how long and differently colored it was), and his facial features were somehow very noticeable to Arthur even from this distance. Perhaps because of all the time spent around him.

From what Arthur could see, Francis was currently handing something over to a young woman (likely around his own age, which would also mean married) and talking to her all the while. He could see the man smiling and clearly in a purposefully charming way…. _So he likes women. _

He didn't realize that thought was echoing inside his mind—or had even entered int his first place—until a second or so after it started. Nor had he wanted to think it. Or to care. But Arthur suddenly felt a great drop in his chest, and once again, the only thing he knew how to feel was anger—he wasn't, after all, going to just drop to the ground and put his head in between his knees or clutch his chest and run away.

But then he hid that, too, because he suddenly also felt like _this_ had been the reason he had come to town and finally moved from the spot he'd been standing in over to where Francis was.

The man had gone back inside his home (which was actually one of the few that were stone rather than wood), so Arthur folded his arms and waited in front of the crudely-built table where the woman had been standing before. It was less than a minute later before Francis stepped back out, hunching over so he could fit through the doorway easily, and saw him. At which he widened his eyes and then gave him an odd sort of smile.

"So this is where you work," Arthur said casually before the other man could do anything, looking around at it. Not that there was much to look at.

"And live," Francis confirmed, getting somewhat over his surprise and setting down the small jars he had in his arms. "I see zat even on Sundays, I cannot get rid of you…."

Arthur caught the glint in his eye and smirked, almost forgetting about the woman. "I'll remind you that _you_ are the one who chose this, not I…. And I do recall warning you when we met."

"Oh, zat you 'would not make zis easy for me'? _Oui_, I remember." Francis smirked and folded his own arms to match Arthur's stance. "I didn't expect you to come looking for me, zough—"

"I wasn't looking for you," Arthur contradicted at once, frowning and tightening his folded arms over his chest, as though to hide the sudden, heavy heartbeat. "I simply found you while walking around." In slight embarrassment, he looked down at the table in half-feigned curiosity. "So what is it that you _do_, exactly?"

Francis stared at him in amusement for a second and almost laughed a little before answering: "I cook food. Which for ze most part right now is bread and fruit preserves…. Do you find zat surprising?"

He raised an eyebrow as well as the corner of his lips, and Arthur looked back up and remembered the man bragging about his cooking skills being even better than the royal chefs'. And then he couldn't help but smirk again—though this time it was more of a knowing smirk.

"No, I don't. I now I suppose I can see why you're not dirt poor like a lot of these people."

"Of course not; I _did _already tell you zat I am ze best you will find among ze peasants," said Francis, dipping his head in a charming manner, as he seemed to have a habit of doing. It made Arthur's heart skip a beat and then made him dreadfully uncomfortable because of that.

"I bet the rest of them hate you for that nasty arrogance of yours."

"_Non_, arrogance fits me nicely… unlike ozzers." He paused and smirked, and Arthur frowned again but didn't interrupt. "If zey 'ate me for any reason, it's because I am French."

_Actually, I bet you just charm the hell out of them all,_ Arthur couldn't help but think. It was a good thing he didn't accidentally do so out loud again.

Soon after their first French lesson, he'd asked Francis what he was even _doing_ in England in the first place, as there weren't terribly many Frenchmen here, and the man had told him that he had had to leave his mother and sister because he was no longer wanted in France.

_"I did sometsing, I was caught, and certain privileges allowed me to have ze choice to eizzer be 'anged or leave ze country," Francis told him, grimacing slightly at the memory. "And I did not want to die, so I came 'ere. Zat's all I'm going to tell you."_

_ Arthur stared for a second, wondering what Francis could have possibly done. Murder? Stolen something of high worth?—he didn't seem like the kind of man to do something like that. And this "privilege" was piquing his curiosity a lot as well…. But he realized this sort of thing must have been a bad memory, so he didn't try to make Francis talk about it._

_ "How old were you then, at least?"_

_ "A little younger zan you. Fifteen."_

And even now, it still puzzled him as to why Francis had chosen England to come to, when their countries held such a rivalry with each other. Perhaps because he'd figured it would be easier, since he spoke English…. Those questions surfaced in Arthur's mind again, but he still didn't plan on asking them. As intentionally rude as he would be to the man at times, he didn't want to bring that up. There was something keeping him from being so tactless and insensitive when it came to important things. And Francis.

"Except zair are plenty of young ladies 'oo are always happy to talk to me…," Francis continued, starting to lean on the table a little, as he'd felt the pause and didn't want it to be filled with silence. He gave a sort of mock-leer at Arthur, who'd just been snapped out of his thoughts and slightly surprised. "And an old woman lives nearby 'oo sometimes makes tea out of pine needles and gives some to me in exchange for a bit of bread. She's nice, at least."

"People _enjoy_ your presence? …Well, I supposed you must act more pleasant around other people than you do with me," Arthur sneered, a small laugh in his voice. And there was the mention of women again, which got his heart fired up and the rest of him trying to push it back down. "Although I don't see how any person could deal with you for very long." He felt almost afraid to ask, but he let the next words slip out anyway because he really _needed_ to know—"…Do you have a wife?—Or a lover?"

While Arthur tried his best to hide the sudden heat in his face, Francis merely chuckled a bit. He hoped it was at the question and not because of his embarrassment.

"_Non_,_ mon ami_—but I suppose if I 'ad grown up 'ere in England, I would. I was too young to marry when I was in France, and now zat I am 'ere, I 'ave no one to marry me off. So it would 'ave to be for love and not for my family, since zey are not 'ere." Francis smiled warmly, like he usually did whenever he mentioned love. Arthur had noticed that he seemed rather fond of the idea—and it was kind of annoying. "I 'ave 'ad very many lovers, zough…. I am quite popular wis both ze men and ze women, you know."

He'd leaned in slightly closer and spoken more quietly at that last part, clearly not wanting anyone else to hear. And Arthur obviously knew why—but he was more focused on the sudden realization: Francis did not _only_ like women. He didn't want to admit to himself how relieved he was, but there was really no doubting that he suddenly felt considerably happier. But still, just the way Francis had said that, and then winked…. It was like he _knew_. He had practically confessed to the _Prince_ that he had done things both illegal and considered to be sin, and he had done so without any trace of fear that anything would happen to him.

And he was correct, anyway. Nothing was going to happen to Francis for that in any circumstance; Arthur knew would not let it.

Well… Arthur supposed that they'd come to a sort of silent understanding of each other, then. He wasn't sure if it implied anything else, though.

"So, are you actually going to buy anytsing," Francis sighed, sounding serious, "or will I 'ave to shoo you away?"

Arthur looked up at him and held his look of seriousness for a moment before breaking into short laughs with him. He then picked up a clay jar in his hand to mockingly examine and open.

"Well, this certainly looks like quality—er… strawberry jam…?" Arthur was actually fully aware of what it was just by the smell (but he wasn't going to admit that Francis must indeed have been skilled when it came to food), and his joke didn't even fool Francis enough to make him annoyed. "But actually, Francis," he started to say, setting the jar down carefully, "I'm becoming rather bored standing here, and I don't fancy sitting down on the side of the road or a dirty bench, so do you suppose you could spare a bit of time from your work for a walk? Perhaps a bit of an extra French lesson, as well?"

"If you're bored, why not go and pretend to talk to your faeries?" said Francis at once, and he made no effort to hide his mocking tone. He didn't use that sort of teasing on him much, but everything about the faeries had been impossible to keep from him for long. Peter had told him as soon as he'd had the chance…. Before Arthur could scowl and say anything back, though, Francis let his smirk drop slightly and continued, "But I don't tsink I'm going to 'ave much business at all wis you 'anging around 'ere, so I'll take zat offer. I shall need you to 'elp wis carrying zese jars back into my 'ouse, zough."

Arthur's frown had been stuck at halfway before Francis finished—at which he was even angrier. He folded his arms again and wrinkled his nose in annoyance. "And I shan't take orders from a _peasant_," he practically snarled. And he then went on to mutter, as he took a quick look around, "Especially not in the presence of _other_ peasants…."

Really, though, it was more like he loathed taking orders from anyone.

"Ah, but I'm—"

"Oh, yes, I know—you're '_ze_ _best among ze peasants_.'"

His imitation of Francis's voice was so off that neither of them could help but laugh a little.

"Onhonhon, I'm glad you finally see it my way," said Francis teasingly, picking up two of the jars and smirking again before turning around to take them back into his house. Arthur just stood there, too used to having servants do everything like this for him to even consider helping until Francis returned, glared at him for a moment, then gathered up the rest of his things and leaving Arthur with nothing to help with anyway.

Once they were walking and making their way out of the village, Francis said, "You didn't 'elp, so I tsink zat means I can demand pay for zis French lesson…."

Rather than sneering, Arthur immediately and almost unthinkingly reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a silver coin, then handed it over. "Hmph, fine," he said dully, mostly apathetic about giving him money he technically deserved. There was much more where that came from, anyway.

Francis took it almost hesitantly, looking in between the coin and Arthur's face, wondering if the Prince was serious. After all, _he_ hadn't been serious in the first place. After a second, he gave him a strange look and pressed the coin back into Arthur's hand.

For a couple seconds while they walked, Arthur gave him a questioning look, and he got a pretty obvious look in return for his answer.

* * *

**In case you haven't noticed, there's a pattern to how I name the chapters: always after a bit of dialogue from somewhere in the chapter. But with this one I very nearly broke that pattern, as a part of me really wanted to make the title _I'm a lover, I'm a sinner_. And I normally get annoyed with song-lyric titles, but that would have just been _so_ perfect... oh well. That was just a bit of insight on how I do things, in case anyone cares.**

**On another note, thank you so much to everyone who has followed/favorited/reviewed this story so far. And thank you if all you do is read it and just check it every day for an update because you don't have an account or something, too. I really appreciate everyone who likes my story. :)**

**And SPEAKING of reviews, it would be great if you left one. *nudge nudge* :D**


	5. Francis is his name

**Normally, I would have taken longer with this because I'd have updated my other continuous fic first, but I had so much on my mind about this chapter that I simply had to do it first. And I think I might do the same thing again, because I really love writing this story. ^_^**

* * *

That had been longer than expected to "spare a bit of time from his work for a walk." Arthur had even lied a little about the walk, because a good deal of that time had been spent sitting down at the side of a dirt path—and then when they had both been starving, Arthur had refused to eat anything Francis had back in the village and instead snuck into the castle kitchens through an unguarded door to grab some fruit for the both of them. And their "walk" hadn't ended in the castle garden, nor had it ended at any of the small arguments that had sprung up inevitably. It only did when dusk began to fall and Arthur knew he would be needed in the castle that they parted ways for the day.

Not that Francis minded. He couldn't even mind when he walked the whole way back to his home in the village and realized just how long he'd spent away while he could have been making his living and how much business and opportunity to bring more silver into his pocket he had missed. He could feel the soreness in his legs build up from walking so much and he still didn't mind. He knew how relieved he should have been to find that his house had not been broken into while he was away, and he still didn't mind.

While he ducked his head and habitually grabbed the small pieces of flint and steel to the right of the door and created a spark to light the oil lamp, Francis muttered under his breath about how it was Arthur's fault for all of this and that he'd spent so much unnecessary time away from the village, but he still did not truly mind.

Truly, it had been a nice break from the norm. Francis had still had a bit of business in the morning after Mass and a lunch no smaller than what he normally had. Never had he spent so long with Arthur at one time… it was odd. Especially in that they hadn't been sitting down and insulting each other over parchment and ink. There were still insults, but there had hardly been an air of confinement or learning around them…. And in each pause Francis had been able to look at him and see the sky behind him that lit his face differently than when they were in the castle and listen to the sound of wind swaying the trees' branches and insects buzzing around.

Francis remembered having days like those with women before. He also remembered having taken them to his bed afterwards.

Arthur wasn't in his bed right now, he mused. And… that was because Arthur was the _Prince_, dammit!—_Dieu_, he clearly wasn't going to be interested in that sort of thing, even if he really wanted it. And Francis knew that he shouldn't have been interested at all in a man who so hid those sort of feelings, whether or not it was by his own choice.

Yes, he _knew_ that; but that didn't mean he abided by rational thinking when it came to this sort of thing. Going by his instincts in the field of love and relationships was the reason he was no longer in France, the reason he was here. And still, he would have done it all over again because he believed passion was not something to think about. It was something to feel.

Strange, though, how for once he couldn't quite tell where his passion was directing when it came to Arthur. He hadn't had a lover or even single nights of passion with anyone since he'd begun teaching Arthur French…. _But per'aps zat is just coincidence._

It was also suddenly strange to him how it was always _Arthur_ in his mind. Francis never thought of him as _the Prince_. Possibly because the man could be immature and didn't often act like a real prince to him… but more likely, he figured with a sigh as he undressed himself and put on his nightclothes, that he was simply too close to him. And really, how lucky he must have been to be able to think whatever he liked of the royal family and have a plausible and personal reason for it. A month ago, before the King had approached him on a horse and requested his services, this would have seemed incredible. And now it felt completely normal, and that in itself was the strangest thing.

Francis's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his hunger, which he could honestly say he was glad for. It reminded him of the lack of business today that was Arthur's fault, and he continued to dwell on that as he grabbed a bit of dried meat hanging from the ceiling and took the two strides to his bed.

_I suppose I'll 'ave to go 'unting tomorrow to make up for zat,_ he thought, glancing at his bow in the corner. He also supposed, vaguely, that he might be doing that every coming Monday.

When he finished the terribly small (and also technically sinful, considering what day it was) dinner of dried pork, Francis lied down on his back and took a few seconds to stare at his thatched ceiling. And then, as he had made routine for himself every night since he'd come to England, he raised two fingers to his lips, kissed them, and waved it upward to send the kiss to his mother, sister, and… Antonio.

He was then about to roll onto his side and attempt sleep, but Francis was struck with a thought and it was deep in his chest rather than his head, and so he could not help it—

Rolling over the other way, he pressed his fingers to his lips again and sent the kiss off in the direction of the castle, to Arthur.

* * *

Arthur didn't say a word to his father when he returned to the castle that evening and sat down with his family for supper. And luckily, his father said not a word to him, either. But he knew there were questions in his mind as well as everyone else's, as he had parted with them rather differently than usual that morning. He wouldn't blame them for being curious, but that didn't mean he thought it was any of their business.

When he felt that the food he'd eaten would do for sustenance until the morning and left the hall, though, he didn't make it to his chambers without being stopped by his mother.

She had walked up behind him, and the sudden noise of footsteps startled Arthur enough that he spun around on one foot and unconsciously reached for a weapon that wasn't there—but then stopped when he realized who it was.

"Oh—Mother, you should have announced your presence…," he said as he shifted the rest of his body to completely face her and calmed down.

"It didn't occur to me that you would be so jumpy, Arthur," she told him, sighing slightly.

"Yes, well, there's a certain amount of paranoia that needs to come with being King, and I'll have it."

His mother was then silent for a moment, but she seemed to shrug off what he'd said as she moved forward, where the hall was better lit. "I am not going to criticize you or question you for your… slightly odd behavior today, Arthur," she began to say, at which her son's expression became set and closed, "but I thought you should know that earlier I saw you in the garden from my window. Talking with the French boy who is teaching you."

"Francis," said Arthur almost at once, before his mother could continue. He frowned up at her, and she looked back at him questioningly. "_Francis_ is his name."

She didn't speak for several seconds, but she eventually sighed again and looked up to say firmly, "Your father didn't see, however, and I do not intend to tell him."

"It doesn't matter; you don't even know what you _saw_," snapped Arthur, almost too loudly. His mother didn't look very alarmed, though—not even at the expression of anger he looked up from the ground at her with. "He was helping me with my French, as he is _paid_ to do."

Once again, there was silence between them. His mother looked at him sadly, all the things she wasn't saying because she didn't _need_ to say them behind her eyes. She then stepped closer to him yet again and was now close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. Arthur was frustrated that he had to look somewhat upward at her because of his shorter height.

"I told you I wasn't going to question you, Arthur," she told him, speaking softly and almost soothingly. "But the reason I came to speak to you is that I wanted you to know that, no matter what, you are still my son."

When Arthur didn't respond immediately, she pulled him into a hug. He allowed himself to fall into it and hug her back, however childish it felt to be hugging his mother at this age. He loved his mother, though; he really did. That was much more than he could say for his father.

"Do you love the King?" he said quietly against her shoulder, the question having just occurred to him. "Whether you did or not when you married him, do you truly love him now, Mother?"

She made a small noise of—discomfort?—or just a sigh? Arthur couldn't tell. But it took a few more seconds for her to answer, and she apparently felt the need to kiss his forehead and stroke his hair like he was a small child before she did.

"Yes, Arthur, I do. I understand that your relationship with him is difficult, and it occasionally pains me to know how he treats you, but he _does_ love you, even if it may not seem—"

"I am nothing but a disappointment to him," Arthur said immediately, yet dully. There was no anger or disappointment to his voice or expression—he was merely stating a fact. He heard his mother give a slight gasp, and she was likely about to contradict him, but he didn't let her. "If Allistor had never left, then _he_ would be preparing to be King and I would be nothing."

With that, he stepped away from his mother and out of her arms. She frowned at him, definitely not having expected him to bring up Allistor. No one had spoken about him in a rather long time. Still before she could say anything or even do more than look at him sadly, Arthur kissed her on the cheek almost mechanically and then started back to his chambers.

"Goodnight, Mother."

* * *

To neither of their surprise, the Sunday visits became kind of routine for them. Even though the thoughts that had started it weren't continuously present each Sunday morning at Church, Arthur had simply decided that he wanted to take the same trip down to the village and tease Francis and bicker with him and then eventually get him away from his house for a short walk that ended up being not so short. He was a man of consistency (which he figured was a good trait to have as a future king), and it would have annoyed him if that were merely a one-time thing.

And so in the following month, as September turned into October, the weeks were six days of lessons and then a full day to just spend meaningless time together and bother each other and consequently learn more about each other than they would have through just the lessons even if they didn't mean to—and didn't know they were even doing so.

On the very next Sunday, Arthur bought a jar of Francis's jam just to humor him but later realized it was excellent and refused to tell him so. It wasn't truly surprising that Francis seemed to be popular in the village, not only with those who were romantically interested in him but also with his business, as he was French and so of course he had to be skilled with food. Not that, once again, Arthur was going to admit that.

By the second visit, he realized that all that walking had worn a hole in his shoe and had one of his servants mend it, blaming Francis all the while.

Each Sunday, he was perfectly aware that he was adding fuel to the fire as far as his father's suspicions and opinion of him went (as well as the peasants' confusion regarding his sudden routine presence in the village), but he simply couldn't help it. Arthur also knew he was spending less time in the forest or near the lake with the faeries whom he would have recently considered his only friends…. But he reluctantly supposed he had a new friend now. A friend that he argued with and verbally (and occasionally physically, but not in a serious way) abused, and who did those things back to him. But a friend nevertheless, and someone he could actually call his equal, in a way.

He didn't know whether or not he liked having a person that he could personally not look either up or down to, though. It was strangely refreshing, but almost too new for him even after several weeks of knowing him.

No matter what he told himself, though, it was impossible to ignore the fact that he and Francis were clearly more than teacher and student, more than peasant and prince. The more time he spent around him, whether it was learning French or completely outside of lessons, the more Arthur realized how much he really… _hated_ him.

It infuriated him to be around Francis because that man made him feel less in control, less powerful. _Thoughts_ he could ignore, but feelings became physical relatively quickly, and they weren't pleasant at all. He hated feeling weak like that, he hated walking with Francis and feeling fear of doing or saying the wrong thing because he _shouldn't_ have feared he would say something wrong (because it shouldn't even matter, anyway), and most of all he hated feeling like Francis held that sort of power over him. Arthur would soon hold all of England in the palm of his hand, and yet a mere peasant could make him feel like he could give up all of that.

Except Francis wasn't merely a peasant. Not only because he'd said so himself, but because he fearlessly acted like he was Arthur's equal and thus he couldn't help but _see_ him as an equal.

But still, he had to combat the feeling of powerlessness. Arthur did that by denying it all to himself as much as he could and otherwise clearly expressing his annoyance and frustration with everything Francis did. By insulting him, by teasing him, by hitting him. And generally refusing to accept that he felt anything more than begrudging tolerance for the man outside of lessons despite the fact that he kept opting to be near him so often.

Through all of this, he also couldn't bring himself to care whether any of the other peasants developed opinions or assumed things about them.

Or even his father, for that matter.

* * *

"Where is Father?"

Arthur made his way down the stone steps from the corridor to the table in the dining hall, frowning at the empty seat at the end where the King normally would be sitting. It was almost too surprising for him to have any room to be glad for his father's absence.

His question echoed throughout the hall, as he'd spoken slightly more loudly than he'd meant to, and three pairs of eyes were on him before he was even at the table. Except Francis only looked at him for a moment before looking to his mother just as he was, since he must have been wondering the same thing.

"He received a message last night from his brother saying that he was sick and wanted to see him. He'll likely be gone for about a fortnight."

"And that doesn't make you King until he returns, you know," said Peter before Arthur could respond.

Glaring at and hating his younger brother, Arthur said through gritted teeth, "Yes, I'm _aware_." He then made to sit down at his usual seat across from Francis, frowning in spite of the sudden bliss of knowing his father wouldn't be in the castle for at least two weeks.

As usual, he was silent as he ate, but several minutes later when he reached across the table for the pitcher of milk, he felt Francis's hand brush over the top of his and automatically looked up. He'd thought it might have been an accident, but the man's face made it clear he'd meant to get his attention. And so it was suddenly a lot less awkward and flush-inducing.

"You are 'appy zat your fazzer is gone, no?" he said quietly, not wanting the other two at the table to hear. They probably did, anyway, but he didn't care.

"Of course," Arthur replied in the same low voice, though still frowning.

"Zen stop looking so grumpy," he advised, laughing a little.

Arthur deepened his frown and swatted Francis's hand away as he went back to his breakfast.

Even with the King gone, things were rather normal as far as the state of the royal household and the kingdom went. Of course, there were still guards and noblemen and the _Queen_ to keep things in order, if anyone even suddenly had the idea to start a bit of chaos.

But Arthur, of course, was in a considerably happier mood the whole time. He would have loved to get used to his father's absence, but he knew that he couldn't. On the following Tuesday, however, he only then realized that there was _one_ problem with it—

"_Quoi_?"

Francis straightened up in his chair and frowned at Arthur, who had been pacing back and forth while answering his questions (to see what he'd memorized of the French language) until just a second ago; he had suddenly stopped, and was just staring ahead.

"I just realized…," Arthur said in a low-ish voice after a second, resuming his pacing, "Today is Tuesday, and I normally have sword practice on today and Thursdays, but my father is gone…. I suppose I can have one of my knights spar with me instead… but this is normally how I take out my anger on my father." With that, he frowned a bit again and folded his arms, and Francis watched him pace with a slight smirk.

"Why don't you let me 'elp you practice?" he suggested half-jokingly, resting his chin on the top of the chair and eagerly waiting for the onslaught of mocking words.

Arthur stopped pacing once again, snapping his head over and narrowing his eyes at him. "What?—do you even know how to use a sword?" he scoffed.

"Actually, I _do_," he said smoothly, smirking again. "I'm more skilled zan you might tsink, Arthur."

"Hn." He didn't know whether or not he believed him, but Arthur figured that either way, he'd have quite a fun time fighting Francis in practice sword-duels. Even aside from the fact that it would be a chance to truly _prove_ his superiority to both Francis and himself, there was just a part of him that, for no explainable reason, made him _want_ to do this.

"Alright then," Arthur said abruptly, striding over to his desk and blowing out the candle (even though it marked a whole twenty minutes until the end of their lesson). "You'll be my sparring partner until my father returns."

Francis was surprised by the sudden agreement, and enough so that he couldn't think of any response, and then even _more_ when, before he knew it, Arthur was shoving a pile of clothes into his arms.

"There's your armor," the Prince told him, his face mostly serious but otherwise smug. "It's one of my spare sets, and we're the same height, so it should work for you."

Still in shocked-mode, Francis just looked at him for a moment, but then he vaguely realized what Arthur was doing—trying to make him feel like a fish out of water and confused. And he knew he couldn't act like it was working, so he stood up and nodded, then waited only a second while Arthur walked over to his wardrobe to grab his own set of armor before starting to undress.

When he heard the sound of cloth ruffling rather than footsteps and a door opening, Arthur turned around to see Francis pulling his tunic off and froze, unable to help his face flushing a bit.

"…What are you doing?" he somehow managed to say in an even voice.

"Changing into zis armor," said Francis as though it were obvious. Which it was. And then he noticed Arthur's stance and expression, at which he smirked. "Onhonhon, does it really make you uncomfortable? Come on, we are both men…. And I didn't see ze point of moving to anozzer room."

"I—well… fine," Arthur said quickly, suddenly frustrated with both Francis and himself as he spun back around. Dear God, there was that weakness again…. He was nearly shaking at the thought of a nearly naked Francis in the room (and also trying _not_ to think about that) and of being nearly naked himself. And he was fairly sure that the other man _wasn't_ going to avoid looking at him.

For the next few minutes, Arthur simply tried to avoid thinking about the other man in the room or what his bare chest had looked like and letting his muscles become too stiff and giving him away. Once he had everything on, he turned back around to see Francis apparently struggling with getting the chainmail on the correct way.

"Don't know how to get it on properly?" said Arthur, his upper lip curling into a mocking smirk. He walked over to Francis, who glared back at him with a half-grimace, and then sighed as he adjusted the chain mail for him.

Both of them were surprised with his sudden boldness—especially with how Arthur was touching Francis on his sides and not getting extremely nervous over it. He supposed it was the feeling of superiority and power rushing through him; touching didn't matter to him if he was at least somewhat humiliating the man. Except it did come with somewhat of a feeling that he liked.

"There. The more you know," Arthur said condescendingly and with a slight laugh as he finished helping Francis with the chainmail and the buckle on the belt that went around it. Briefly looking down, he went on, "At least you were able to do your bottom half yourself…. I trust you won't need help with the gloves?"

"…Hn," was all Francis was going to say. Anything else would have been showing inferiority. He gave the Prince a side-long glance as he started to pull them on.

"You'll also need to do something about that," Arthur added. Francis looked over in confusion until he noticed that the man was gesturing to his hair. And then he frowned at having one of his favorite parts of his body being referred to as "that."

"What's wrong wis it?"

Arthur very nearly said "_Nothing_," but he caught himself.

"You can't let it stay loose while you're fighting, you prat. It has to be tied back—most men in England don't have hair as long as yours for that reason."

Giving another small "Hn," Francis glanced around the room for a second. "Alright, fine. Do you 'ave sometsing I can tie it wis, zen?"

Arthur rummaged in a couple drawers for a minute and found a blue ribbon, then gave it to Francis, who smiled slightly in thanks and then went over to the mirror to tie it in.

"…Quite a new wardrobe for you, isn't it?" Arthur commented, seeing Francis finally fully dressed in the armor. For the umpteenth time, he couldn't help but feel that bit of curiosity as to how life in the castle was for him. Because surely the man couldn't have been used to this kind of thing.

"_Oui_, I suppose." As usual, Francis was clearly being purposefully contemptuous. "Royal clothes are slightly less comfortable zan my own, zough, and my 'ands are a bit bigger zan yours, so zese gloves are tight—"

"Oh, you can quit complaining," Arthur cut in, momentarily scowling. With a huff, he grabbed one of his two swords and slid it into his sheath, then made toward the door. "We'll have to go down to the armory to get you a sword—"

"But zair's two of zem in 'ere… so—"

"Yes, and the one I have is _dull_ and solely for _practice_, Francis." His lip curled condescendingly again. "I'm not letting you fight me with a fully sharpened sword…."

"…Oh." Of course. But Francis brushed off the feeling of having said something stupid as he usually did and followed, opening the door and heading out of it first. "_Allons-y_, zen."

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**This is the first chapter that will actually be _directly_ to-be-continued, since stuff still needs to happen without a time-lapse. Also, I hope you liked the snippet from Francis's point of view... I was purposely vague with the hints about his background and of course the mention of Antonio (as well as the stuff from the last chapter), and it was because I figure it shouldn't be very hard to figure it out without it being clearly stated. Plus, it works for character development. And it allows you guys, as the readers, to interpret it however you want.**

**And as always, I love getting feedback, and I love those of you who are following this story. Please review~!**


	6. A man of honor and fairness

**Ugh, this chapter is even longer... I suppose some of you will consider that a good thing, but I'm trying not to make the chapters get progressively longer. Anyway, I think you'll all like this chapter, so enjoy. :D**

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"Here, hold it. See how it feels in your hand."

"Eh, I tsink it's a bit too long…. Ze balance feels off."

Francis turned the sword over a couple times in his hand, further deciding that it wouldn't feel right for him to fight with. The handle was comfortable enough, but he felt like it might slip out of his hand just because of the weight of the blade.

"Hm. Shows how much you exercise," Arthur commented snarkily, taking the sword back (at which he had to briefly touch Francis's hand) and returning it to its spot on the rack of swords in front of him. It wasn't really a valid remark, considering how different muscle built up from sword-fighting and muscle built up from doing peasant labor was—and he could see Francis's arms. They were just about as muscled as his, if not more. "You'll need a slightly shorter one, then—ah. There, see if that works."

Arthur handed him a second dulled sword and watched as the man looked over it. It was strange to see him in a room of such dull lighting—not necessarily bad, but different. Truthfully, he couldn't say that there was any setting that Francis would look physically unattractive in… and that was starting to annoy him. Sooner or later, he _would_ find someplace or something unflattering for him.

"It does feel better…," Francis told him, swiping it slowly through the air a couple times and being careful not to come close to hitting anything. Relaxing his arm and looking over to Arthur, he raised a slight eyebrow and said, "Why do you care which sword I use, zough?"

"I am a man of honor and fairness," said Arthur at once, both feeling and sounding like he was reciting something that he had said many times before. "What would be the point of practicing with you if you were hindered simply by a sword that you couldn't use well?" His tone had quickly turned from serious to a snappier one, as he meant to sound condescending to the other man. And as expected, Francis smirked at him, which he returned.

"Zat may be a mistake on your part," said Francis loftily as he slid the sword into his sheath, which he did strangely with ease and without having to look.

"Right," Arthur snapped, not having to sound unimpressed because he knew Francis was joking anyway. Or at least he was pretty sure of it. "Well, you've got your weapon—let's get going, then."

He gestured sharply toward the door and moved past him to take the lead even though he'd been farther away from it, also gesturing for Francis to follow. Which he did, but not before taking another couple seconds to look around the armory—he made a mental note to spend more time in there when he had the chance. It wasn't as though he was an expert in weapons, but he could still appreciate the history behind a lot of those blades.

Arthur knew what he'd been doing because he could hear the jogging footsteps as Francis caught up with him, but he didn't say anything. Partly because he remembered doing the same thing the first time he'd stepped foot into the castle's armory, and he was also amused by the similar interest that the man had.

They had to ascend a bit of stairs to get back up to ground level, at which Arthur directed them to the corridor that would lead them to the main hall. A servant carrying a large bundle of clothes passed them on the way but said nothing, as she was expected to. Francis, however, did glance at her to smile, as was his habit. And while Arthur hadn't even turned his head (he was used to the servants' presence and never considered them important enough to acknowledge), he still noticed the maid's returned smile to Francis.

He frowned to himself, feeling like he'd been hit in the gut, but said nothing.

Francis remained silent at his side (which generally meant he had nothing to say, since he never felt any need to hold back any rude comments or otherwise when it came to him) until they reached the front doors and officially left the castle.

"So, where exactly do you practice?" he thought to ask, as he realized that he didn't yet know where they would be going.

"There's a large hill nearby that has a conveniently flat top," said Arthur, walking past the guards and turning left, motioning for Francis to come with him again—at which he very nearly grabbed the man's hand to pull him along and had to stop himself, suddenly hoping that he hadn't noticed and paranoid that he had.

…And there was the fear again. At least his position of leading Francis meant he didn't have to look at his stupid face and risk feeling more of that right now.

"But don't worry, I could still have you rolling down if I pushed you hard enough," he added, only then finding himself able to look back at him with a smirk and an air of superiority. He brought Francis to the line of stables and troughs, where he immediately picked his usual horse and undid her reigns. Francis started walking to get a horse as well, but Arthur held out his hand as a motion to stop while he was halfway up on his horse—

"I don't trust you with one of my horses, so you can get behind me on this one."

"Why would you not trust me wis an 'orse?" Francis protested, raising an eyebrow up at him. "What could I possibly _do_, lose it?"

"Maybe," Arthur sniffed, sounding half-serious. "Who knows what sort of stupid things you're capable of? I'm not even sure if you know how to _ride_ a horse, though, and I really don't feel like having to find someone else to teach me French because you fell off and cracked your skull on a rock. Just get on so we can go."

At that, Francis stared up at him for a second, his eyes narrowed but more for the reason that the sun was shining in his face than anything. Arthur stared back, waiting.

"Fair enough," said Francis, a glint in his eye as he left the horse he'd been heading for before and walked over to Arthur's, then put his food up on the edge of the saddle and pulled himself up onto the horse's back.

"Hold on, then." Almost at once, Arthur gave a light kick to the horse's side and snapped at the reigns to get it to start trotting, which quickly became faster as it turned and galloped past the front of the castle and past the garden and through the dirt road that led to the hill. Francis had nearly been unable to get a proper hold in time, at which Arthur had been laughing a little to himself—until the Frenchman put his arms around his waist to hold on.

"I tsought you said you didn't want me falling off, hm?" said Francis as Arthur jolted at the sudden contact, laughing at his surprise.

It took a second for the Prince to calm down from the shock of those arms around his stomach, but his muscles didn't get less stiff, and his heart was still beating faster than before. He couldn't stop the almost painfully warm feeling in his chest, either.

"It's your own fault you didn't grab on soon enough," he snapped, though a little jokingly. Arthur knew that Francis could have just grabbed the edges of the saddle for support—which meant he'd either done that instead because of panic or because he'd done it on purpose. He didn't know what to think under the possibility that it had been on purpose. "Just don't dare slip off now, or you'll take me with you…. And if either of us get injured before we even take out our swords, that'll be no fun."

As they rode on, Arthur didn't say anything else, but simply tried to relax his back muscles and ignore the pressure around his middle and just ride and focus on what was in front of him rather than behind him. However, he was failing at it, and Francis took merely a few minutes to realize the tenseness—which he found amusing when he did.

Smirking to himself, Francis inched forward—but only enough that it seemed like he was simply shifting his position on the horse to stay balanced and for nothing else. With Arthur still remaining silent, he continued to do this gradually until he couldn't move farther anymore and was pressed directly up against Arthur's back. It wasn't uncomfortable for him (if anything, he was rather willing to admit to himself that he liked it), but he could tell that Arthur was getting tenser and likely even more nervous—and still the Prince said nothing. Determined to play this game out, Francis leaned just a bit farther, halfway-resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder—

"_What_ are you doing?" he finally half-gasped out, trying to sound angry but not sure whether he'd managed to do so. He felt instead like he sounded scared, which he was—he was inwardly panicking because he hadn't been aware of what Francis was doing at first and now he felt like he might accidentally let go of the reigns because he was starting to get dizzy from both confusion and the feeling that was spreading through him. And now he couldn't ignore it any longer, because it was actually getting to the point that it was actually dangerous.

"Don't want to fall off…," Francis said casually, as though he was doing nothing unusual—except Arthur could still hear the grin in his voice.

It would have been more embarrassing for him to ask something like "Is all that really necessary, then?" than otherwise because they both knew what was going on now—Arthur was aware that this wasn't Francis being serious or trying to find an excuse to touch him, like he occasionally found himself wanting to do but also too afraid to: He was just playing a little game to tease him. _Of course it's only a game…,_ he thought with a confusing mix of bitterness and relief.

Once again, he was completely silent as he continued to ride and make the familiar turns that meant they were nearly there—but it wasn't long before Francis lifted his head up from Arthur's shoulder (for which he was briefly glad) and then moved it farther, stretching his neck and pressing his lips to Arthur's cheek.

It was impossible for the Prince to hide his sharp intake of air, and he suddenly also found it impossible to keep control of the horse, as his arms lowered on their own and he involuntarily jerked the reigns and made his horse start to veer them off course while Arthur's heart stopped altogether and he felt all the blood going to his face and neck instead. For a couple seconds, he was completely unaware of the world around him, but then he felt a sudden lack of lips on his cheek and he realized that they were fairly close to falling into a ditch.

"Damn—_shite_—!" Jerking himself back into reality (and also his heart back into a proper pumping rate), Arthur gave a kick to the horse's side and got them back on track in another couple seconds. Relieved from that sudden panic (not that they'd have been terribly hurt, though), he let out a few heavy breaths and snapped his head around to look angrily and red-faced at Francis, who was laughing to himself. "What the devil did you that for?"

Without giving him a chance to answer (he didn't really want to hear whatever answer he would have to that, anyway), Arthur elbowed him in the ribs and turned back around to see where they were going. It didn't do much, though, since they were both wearing armor. Francis just scooted back a little and laughed again, but more to himself this time.

He'd been a little worried when they'd been veering off course, but it was okay now, so he didn't regret it. It had been fun to see what he could do to really distract Arthur, anyway—even though he was sure he had made him angry, as well. But he spent a lot of the time and effort he wasn't using to teach him French to purposely make him angry.

When the horse got them to the top of the hill, Arthur didn't hesitate to pull the reigns and slide off—which was partly because he needed to get away from Francis's arms completely, if only for now. As his feet hit the ground, he started walking a bit away from the horse at once without looking back, his hand unconsciously moving up to rub the cheek that Francis had kissed. He only stopped and turned around when he heard the other man slide off the horse, which almost immediately started trotting away.

"Um—will it—?"

"Oh, she'll come back," Arthur said dismissively in response to Francis's somewhat concerned expression. "We've had her for a long time—she knows this place and she wouldn't just leave and not return…. Alright, then, draw your sword."

He unsheathed his own and raised an expectant (and rather thick) eyebrow at him, and Francis gave him a very brief look of surprise (since he'd changed subjects so abruptly) before complying and walking over to face him.

"We're fighting with dulled swords and light armor, so remember, obviously neither of us are aiming to kill," Arthur explained seriously, feeling it necessary as he didn't quite believe that Francis had much experience in this. "I won't aim for your face, and you won't aim for mine—though if you do, accidentally or otherwise, I'm quite sure I'll be able to block it."

Francis nodded and prepared his stance, smirking slightly. "What use would I be to you if I was dead, anyway?"

"None," he agreed. "The practice can begin, then."

Unlike the way he would usually start these practice duels with his father, Arthur didn't take a hard swing for the chest, but instead for the leg. There definitely wasn't the angry force behind it that he would have had with his father…. With Francis, it was more of a playful one, in fact. Not that he wasn't putting forth effort, though. It just wasn't as much as he would put forth otherwise.

Strangely not as unready as Arthur suspected he might have been, Francis jumped back and moved his sword to block the attack. They both breathed a smirk as the Frenchman tried at his own blow to Arthur's side—but he easily blocked it.

It was rather soon that Arthur realized Francis hadn't been lying about having some experience, as he clearly wasn't a complete novice, but he wasn't anywhere close to his own skill. Arthur could pretty easily block all of his blows, though some of them were smoother and more well-calculated than others. He, however, managed to land several small blows upon Francis's arms and chest (though he really did try to avoid hitting that for a reason that he wouldn't admit to himself) that the man seemed to brush off and tried to ignore.

After what couldn't have been more than four or five minutes, Arthur managed to hit Francis's sword at an angle that knocked it right out of his hands and then knock the man himself to the ground. With a smirk, he stepped over Francis and held the tip of his dulled sword to his chest to show his victory. Despite how easy it had been, it felt rather empowering to have that man on the ground and defenseless… and yet—

"I have to say that I'm disappointed," he admitted as he let his smirk fall a little and pulled his sword away from Francis. _I thought you might actually be a match for me…._

He thought that the man might question why, but he didn't—instead he grimaced and pushed himself back up to go fetch his sword, seeming to be a bit frustrated that he'd lost that.

"Again, _oui_?" he said with raised brow, holding out his sword in a ready stance.

Arthur supposed he had to give it to him that he was being a man about this. And he nodded, figuring that he ought to go a little easier on him. Not _hand_ the win straight over to him, but just make it so it felt more even and that he wasn't just beating him that easily every time. Because that wouldn't have been practice much at all.

So, at the very last second before Francis struck, he switched his sword to his left hand. He blocked a jab to his stomach so that the other's sword was forced upward, at which he took the half-hearted chance for a blow to Francis's arm—but then that was blocked and Francis returned with a strong hit directly to his side with the blunt of his blade.

It was somewhat relieving that he'd been able to hit him, but at the same time Arthur couldn't help but be surprised. Especially at the fact that the man had chosen to hit him the way that would cause less inconvenience and pain when he was already behind. But there wasn't much time for surprise because Francis wasn't stopping, and the two of them suddenly seemed to be in a very even match. Arthur, however, was only really vaguely aware of how much skill Francis had apparently gained in the past few minutes.

The Frenchman was beginning to manage more and more blows, most of which were to Arthur's limbs until—

The flat of his blade hit Arthur's left hand, and the slight weakness and lack of control in that hand (compared to his right, at least) made him quicker to drop his sword. And he then took an instinctual step backward from the sword that was a second away from being pointed at his chest. Somehow, it was really only after he looked up at Francis that the surprise kicked in.

"Not disappointed anymore, I 'ope?" he laughed, withdrawing his sword once Arthur's arms were up in acceptance of defeat.

"You tricked me," he said at once, though there was only mock-anger in his voice, and his lips betrayed him with an—almost _fond_-looking—smirk. "…You wanted me to believe that you were weak, you _conniving_ little… _Frenchman_!" It was the only thing he could think to call him, and he thought to himself that there should be a shorter word to describe everyone from France, and in an insulting manner.

"Onhonhonhon, it takes a fool to be fooled, Arthur," Francis said—and even _now_ his grin was a charming one. "And from what I've seen, ze British are far more manipulative zan ze French…."

"Hn." Arthur narrowed his eyes and frowned a little, but the disappointment really had gone, and he felt happier now. Picking his sword back up (this time with his dominant hand), he took an advancing step forward just as he said, "Again!"

There was an almost immediate reverberating clash of metal, at which they both felt either an actual pause in their actions or simply time slowing down for a second for them to smirk at each other. It went on, and several blows were struck to both of them but the bulk of it was sharp blocks and close-calls with deflection—and no one was struck down completely or seemed even close to it. Dirt was almost continuously being kicked into the air from their constant side-stepping, but only ever as high as their knees.

With all of their moving around and strategic steps around and changing directions, Arthur almost felt as though they were… _dancing_. He was really only entertaining the comparison, though, not the real idea of dancing with Francis—however graceful he noticed the man's steps were.

When he was like this, constantly having to take tactical breaths and his main focus having to be where Francis's sword was, he felt both free—somewhat physically, but more in the sense that he could think and feel whatever came to his heart without repercussion from the logical part of his mind. So he didn't feel strange or angry with himself when it occurred to him that this was, in a way, like their own dance—a wild animal's dance, as though they were charging at and circling each other and butting antlers. Except it wasn't to impress any females.

A couple "_Ha!_"s rang out from either of them when they got a good hit, and those seemed to be about even. Sometime through, Arthur noticed how much more natural this felt than when he was practicing with his father. Not only was he fighting for the sake of fighting rather than to really_ hurt_ the other, but he also didn't have to look up or keep a certain distance to make it easier. They were the same height, so it felt equal on all accounts.

For what felt like an hour (though they were both absolutely sure it hadn't been nearly that long), they went at it, metal clanging in the air and creating actual sparks, and sweat building up underneath their chainmail. A few times it got interesting and one of them would get a series of blows on the other and it would seem they were about to win, but then it would even out in the next several seconds. Neither of them seemed keen on giving up, though.

Eventually, Arthur got the tip of his sword through the handle of Francis's and made to try and jerk it out of his hand, but he was too late and Francis swung for his shoulder in a way that forced him to twist out of the way to avoid the blow and possibly being knocked to the ground. In the next second, he had his back to Francis's chest, which he immediately realized was a mistake, and he had to bring up his sword rather quickly and carefully to block the roundabout swing. They both ended up having to twist around, as it seemed they were stuck—until Arthur managed to side-step out of it but then attempt a blow that Francis had to lean too far forward to block, and both of their swords were knocked out of their hands at the same time that Francis fell forward on top of him.

They pushed themselves away from each other as they fell in order to be able to hold out their arms to cushion themselves, and they ended up lying on the ground a foot or so across from each other, panting.

Feeling exhausted, Arthur closed his eyes for a few seconds as he caught his breath. As drained of physical energy as he was, though, that had been invigorating… in other ways. He didn't know whether his fast-beating heart was more because of all the physical exertion he'd just done or because of Francis. Looking over, he saw that the man across from him was doing the same thing and, after a second, caught his gaze.

"…I won," Francis said in between breaths, smirking slowly, as though it caused him a little too much effort.

"No you didn't—your sword clearly went flying out of your hand before mine did," Arthur countered, not sounding half as serious about his argument as he would have were he not as exhausted. Especially because of the breathy laugh he let out immediately afterward—which Francis joined in.

In the short gap of silence, Arthur pulled off his right glove so he could rub his hand and flex his fingers a little, but he remained in the position he was, lying on his left side and looking at Francis and just breathing.

"…Your hair ribbon came out while we were fighting," he observed, somewhat unconsciously reaching over with his ungloved hand to prove it by feeling his hair. He felt strangely casual at first, both in saying that and feeling Francis's hair, but then his breath hitched slightly when he realized what he was doing. Not that he wanted to stop, or that he was going to.

Truthfully, he'd wanted to feel Francis's hair for a long time. Just to run his fingers through it and see what it felt like, as he'd been sure it wouldn't feel like his own hair, which was short and choppy and stubbornly messy. That urge had at first seemed like mere curiosity to him, but it was clearly different now—it would always come stronger than usual when it was hit a certain way by the sunlight or when Francis ran his hand through it himself. And now he had his own fingers sliding through it, completely separate from being about the ribbon anymore, and it was sweaty but _oh God_ it did not disappoint at all.

"Hm. Wonder when it 'appened…," said Francis slowly and a bit lazily, not seeming to care all that much. He didn't say anything about the hand in his hair, but instead smirked, and Arthur could only assume it was a response to that.

And then there was a glint in Francis's eyes, and he lifted his left hand toward Arthur's head with a look of curiosity that made it seem as though he was the same way about his hair as Arthur was with his. Or perhaps he'd only gotten the idea just now and there was nothing giving him a reason not to do it, but either way, Arthur could feel a hand running through his own sweaty locks and fingers sliding along the base of his scalp to deepen themselves in his hair.

The feeling was new, even amongst everything else Francis had made him feel so far. He felt like they were sharing something intimate… even if it was right after sword-fighting for several minutes. And Arthur's heart was beating differently now, and he suddenly wanted to slide his hand down to Francis's jaw instead and just pull him closer so there wouldn't be a gap between their faces and they could just breathe the same hot breaths and just… _be_ closer.

It was difficult to put into words, even inside his mind, what he wanted, but he was trying his hardest not to let that want show in his eyes because he didn't _want_ to feel that want—and it wasn't showing in the other man's eyes so he refused to give in and then be rejected. But mostly he just refused to give in. Feeling his hair would have to do for now.

"You must have quite the past in France…," Arthur eventually said with a slight smirk and laugh, knowing Francis would know immediately what he was referring to. It really hadn't been until now that it occurred to him how strange it was for a peasant to be that skilled with a sword, and he also realized that he had minimal knowledge of what Francis had been doing before he came to England. "Will I ever know everything about it?"

"Per'aps… it depends," Francis said, his voice now considerably less breathy, but actually sounding a little serious. "But if you want to know 'oo taught me 'ow to use a sword, my fazzer did before 'e died."

He'd suspected a family member, but he hadn't expected the death—and he certainly didn't find that a useful answer, since he still didn't know what Francis's father had done for a living that would make him skillful with a sword. But he wasn't going to ask, either, as that would have been tactless even for him.

Not looking morose at all after giving that detail about his life, though, Francis shifted a little and smirked.

"Once, maybe twice more for ze day?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows for a second but then gave him a smirk to match. "Of course. You should see if you can find the ribbon and tie your hair back with it again, though."

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**I don't know all that much about sword-fighting, so I kind of refrained from using too much detail when writing about the fight scenes in order to not make myself look like an idiot. Most of what I do know is generic knowledge and stuff from watching Merlin (speaking of which, Merthur reminds me so much of FrUK for too many reasons to count). But that aside, this was my favorite chapter to write so far, and it's only going to get funner from here. **

**Reviews are highly appreciated, and I thank all of you who've favorited/followed this story so far! ^_^**


	7. What kind of bond?

**I started school on Monday, so I've had limited time to write this. And it's my Junior year in highschool, so it's going to be the hardest and the most time-consuming. But I was able to churn out this chapter, and I really hope you enjoy it! (Trust me, I know you will.)**

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He could only watch in horror from the sidelines, held back by what felt like ropes wrapped around his middle, restricting him from moving more than his head and legs—except when he looked down, all Arthur could see were the hands of two guards gripping his wrists.

There were guards on all sides of him except the front, too. It was as though they wanted him to _watch_… just as everyone else was. All the servants who lived in the castle and all the peasants from the village as well as the surrounding farms were crowded far ahead of him, around a wooden platform in a large clearing near the entrance of the village.

A guard dragging a man behind him seemed to take forever to get up the few steps of the platform. Arthur was forced to see every tiny movement, to experience every moment that stood in between now and the guard reaching the two wooden pillars—in between which was a hanging rope. His breath caught in his lungs when Francis turned to search the crowd for him with his eyes and found him standing far behind all of them.

It felt like an eternity they had to look at each other, and yet at the same time merely a second, before Francis was jerked up by rough hands up onto the box that stood under the noose of rope.

"_NO!_" Arthur screamed at once, only now finding the voice that came with his violent resistance to the ropes—no, the guards—that were holding him back. But it seemed as though his voice was being restricted as well, for he could hardly feel it coming out, and he wasn't even sure whether it was only he who had heard it or if everyone was deaf to his cries. Only to _his_ cries.

For some reason, it didn't feel strange to him that the executioner wasn't reading out the date or giving the supposed crime Francis had done. But Arthur knew the reason, and there was nothing else that mattered. Nothing mattered but the fact that Francis was staring at him with a loose rope sitting around his neck with a dirtied face and a tattered tunic and eyes like nothing he'd ever thought he could see on a man so stupidly charming. He could almost see the swallow of resignation bob in the man's throat.

A man's hand was on the rope that would drop the box from under Francis's feet, and that was when Arthur's thrashing about finally let him free of the guards' grasp, and he was suddenly running and pushing himself forward with all of his strength, yelling out protests with all the air in his lungs though it seemed there was _no_ air in his lungs—but it felt like, at a certain point, he could get no closer. Time was slowing down, but not quite enough, and he was still hopelessly far away when the constant gleam of life in Francis's eyes was no longer there.

* * *

Arthur woke up in a cold sweat, for a moment in shock that he suddenly felt blankets and softness around him instead of something else. His arms convulsively clutched at one of the pillows that he must have moved a bit in his sleep, and he kept his eyes shut and tried to breathe calmly as his mind sorted it all out.

The massive relief that nothing in his dream had been real matched the confusing fear that it might have actually been real after all, and all of that was only made more painful by the confusion he felt as to why he'd had such a dream in the first place. It had been so long since he'd had a legitimate _nightmare_… and now he was plagued with thoughts of hopelessness that would not go away, and Francis's face swam before his eyes whether he had them closed or not, and he could not stop thinking about the prospect of his friend—his tutor—no, his _friend_—being executed. No matter what he tried to convince himself that he felt, that dread and horror wouldn't leave him. Nor could he forget the clear reason for all of that, or stop the few tears that forced themselves out.

But… no, that dream wasn't this world. Arthur was a different person in his dream—in every individual dream, surely. He and Francis were not… like that. They were not doing anything any priest or lord would even be angry about. There was no way that such a fate could happen to the man if they weren't in such a situation.

In spite of himself, Arthur immediately threw what remained of his blankets off of himself and walked over to the window in only his shorts. He needed to feel the cold stone floor against his feet, and he needed to see a calm road and village in the distance to remind himself that Francis was alive and none of that was real. Because really, there was nothing he could say to himself. He was horrified by that dream. And by the vague feel of it, he thought that the course of events in the dream must have repeated themselves throughout the night.

A servant would come into his chambers to draw him a bath and tidy up his bed relatively soon, he remembered. His decision that he had to sort himself out and not allow anyone to see any hint of what he was feeling came quickly and calmly, and he took a couple more seconds' look out the window of the castle before striding over to his bed and throwing any blankets he'd kicked off back on there.

And Francis was least of all to know about this, Arthur told himself over and over again as the urge to tell the man all his fears kept rising.

* * *

Luckily, the King's trip seemed to be going as planned, and there were no messages announcing that he would return early or anything of the sort, as Arthur had feared. He'd figured it would have been just his luck to have his father back in the castle sooner than expected, and so it put him in a better mood to know that there would still be nearly a week more of relative freedom.

On the following Thursday, on which Arthur also normally had sword-practice with his father, Francis replaced him again. And he supposed that the man would continue to do so until he no longer could—except the time he spent clashing swords and dancing around on the flat hilltop with that man had made him consider actually requesting that his father just let him do it with Francis from now on.

But then, of course, he wouldn't have been able to take his anger out on his father any longer. So he wasn't going to do that, even if he did consciously accept that thought on his own.

Peter and his mother seemed to be perfectly aware of the gradually increasing time he would spend around his French tutor, and Arthur was fairly sure they weren't getting good thoughts from it, but frankly, he didn't care. Nothing they assumed could be proven—and it wasn't as though he'd never suffered from their overbearing but silent suspicions before.

Mass on Sunday morning was also much better spent without his father there. Generally, everything was much better in his absence, as there was no weight to carry, no worry of disappointment. Because as useless as he knew it was to try not to be hated by his father, Arthur still didn't want him to be disappointed in him, for some reason.

What was more, Francis's company was actually a comfort to add onto that. Arguing with him and somewhat lightly hitting him in the stomach calmed him, and it was really starting to become something that he needed in his life. He didn't know what he would do if he suddenly stopped having daily lessons with the man.

* * *

"If I didn't know better, I would say I must 'ave changed you, Arthur…. Was zat _friendliness_ you displayed just now…?"

Francis chuckled and leered at him as they treaded carefully through the packed roads (more like rows of dirt in between huts) and away from his home. An old woman living near him had been selling bundles of herbs, and Arthur had seemed to put on a nearly entirely different persona as he'd talked to her and given her a gold piece for one of her bundles.

"The woman was clearly one of the few of all of you who still believe in medicinal magic," Arthur harrumphed, stuffing the herbs into one of his tunic pockets and giving him a bitter look. "She knew about the properties of those plants—a shame, though, that she seems to only believe in the legends. There are spots in the exterior or her hut that she thinks is rotting, but it's actually wood sprites, and she has no idea…."

There were then a few seconds of silence in which Francis just stared at him with a look of mingled amusement and resignation to the fact that he wasn't going to stop hearing things like this. Along with a bit of sadness—as he didn't know whether or not he quite believed it himself, but he could hear what was supposed lunacy to a lot of other people in the Prince's voice, and he felt bad because of it. It was funny, but at the same time sad to hear things like that come from someone who usually seemed fairly sane.

"Zair you go, speaking of faeries again…," said Francis dismissively, with a small laugh of playful disbelief. He lightly hit the back of his hand against Arthur's upper arm out of habit. "'Ow would you even _know_ about zese tsings, if zey were real?"

"At not one point in the last several minutes have I mentioned _faeries_," Arthur snapped, his brow furrowing into a near scowl. "I said _wood sprites_, which are entirely different creatures…. And as I've told you many times before, I talk to them, git. They talk with me nearly every day that you're not staying around me the whole time—"

"Do you even realize 'ow ridiculous zat sounds?" Francis laughed, briefly gripping his shoulder and making him scowl more deeply. "Ah, of _course_ zey only talk to you when I'm not around…. It's fine, I'll pretend to believe your excuse."

"What—?—No, that is _not_ what I meant!" Without realizing it, Arthur's voice had risen and subsequently attracted some quick head-turns (though a few were longer-lasting), but he was too busy glaring at Francis to care even if he had realized it. "It's not my fault you're—"

Arthur had something abruptly bump into him before he could finish even the word, and he immediately snapped his head around to view the culprit—before which he had already started saying,

"Oi, watch where you're going—!"

"'E means zat 'e is very sorry," Francis cut in, stepping over to the frightened-looking woman carrying a basket of bread, and putting his arm around Arthur's shoulders. He gave her a charming smile that made Arthur irrationally angry and the woman clearly in a better mood already. "Don't take 'is rudeness personally, ma'am."

For a second, the woman was looking at Francis as though in fear for his safety, and Arthur was looking at him in a way that confirmed he indeed should be. Except they both knew that he was going to do nothing serious.

"Oh—I… thank you—and I am terribly sorry, Sire," the woman said hastily, bowing her head and then hurrying off in the direction she'd been walking.

At once, Arthur carried on walking himself, but in a much more disgruntled manner and with more purposeful contempt that beckoned Francis to follow him in itself. Scowling deeply now, he gave the other man a sidelong glance and muttered, "Don't do that again."

"Do what?—be polite to a woman?" said Francis, raising an eyebrow and smiling in spite of Arthur's obvious and real anger.

"Undermine me!" he snapped, though he didn't sound as angry as he could've been. "I am to be the King sooner or later, and when those who live in my land see me, I do not want them to see a _Frenchman_ who keeps me from doing anything that they don't like. And when they see you, they should not see a person behind England's King."

This was the first time Arthur was really voicing what he felt every time Francis did something that showed he had power over him—but it was also the first time the situation was appropriate to speak of. And it truly did frustrate him.

But of course, Francis didn't see the Prince being on edge as something to worry about or even tread carefully around. After all, despite what Arthur had said, he really did have certain privileges from being so close to him.

"Well, you did not say anytsing _zen_…." That and his sly smirk was all he needed to get Arthur to harrumph and remain in silent frustration for several seconds—not to get him to stop talking, because he actually found it rather boring when neither of them were talking, but he liked seeing the man frustrated. Especially when it was because of him being right about something. When it was clear that Arthur wasn't going to respond to that (for obvious reasons, which amused him), he went on, "Were you never taught 'ow to treat a woman, zough? I would figure zat you would at least know not to be rude to zem."

In the effort it took to ignore the sudden surge of jealousy, Arthur took a moment to speak. "…Why should I treat a woman any better than I treat men?"

With that, he purposely began walking faster and ahead of Francis, but he quickly understood what he'd meant and sped up his own pace to catch up with him. He decided that he didn't want to see the Prince legitimately upset right now.

"You were saying sometsing about faeries before," he reminded him as he got to walking directly beside him again. "Eh… but when are you not?"

Arthur immediately turned his head to look at him, aware of what had just happened, and the split second for which he caught the man's eyes was a silent _Thank you_ _for changing the subject_—before he got frustrated again, but now for an entirely different reason.

"Magic has much more influence on all of our lives than you'll ever know," said Arthur, eagerly jumping back into the conversation—or argument, whichever—as though they'd never left it. "I can't force you to believe, but I can most certainly look down on you for not—"

"It's not so much zat I don't believe in faeries at all as zat I don't believe zey would talk to _you_ and you _alone_," Francis laughed, honest skepticism in his expression and voice. "'Ow do you expect anyone to not tsink if you're crazy if you don't give zem proof—?"

"If it's proof that you want, then come on, I shall _give_ you proof." The words had come out of Arthur's mouth before he realized it, and he almost regretted both saying them and the serious look he was giving Francis a second afterward, as he had never even considered this sort of thing concerning anyone else in his entire life—but then he decided that it was time for that to change. It was the other people that the brief regret was for, and he knew in that second that, if anyone, Francis would be the person he brought to where he brought no one else.

Noticing the look in Arthur's eyes, Francis couldn't help but be surprised, but he supposed that if the Prince was this serious about it, then he ought to at least humor him. It wasn't as though he was going to refuse him and walk straight away and back to his home just after their not-so-aimless walking had brought them outside the village. He didn't say anything or nod, but he raised a curious eyebrow and let the edge of his lips twitch into the sort of smile that said _Alright, I'll come see whatever this is._

The Prince completely understood all that was passed through their wordless exchange and gave a smirk in return before walking ahead again. For several minutes, it was still the usual path on which they took a walk on Sundays, but there was eventually a separate path that veered off to the side and which was worn in the dry grass from his own feet. No one else would have thought anything of it as they passed it.

This all felt very strange. As Francis walked in curious silence beside him, all Arthur had on his mind was how he would never in a hundred years have considered taking someone down to what he personally called _his_ place. As far as he knew, he was the only human to ever go down to that exact spot. It seemed as though his mind was trying to make it feel casual, like any other time that he would walk down there—but that was impossible because he was actually bringing someone with him.

_I'm doing this,_ he thought in what might have been self-confirmation or just dry humor private to his own mind. _I am actually going to prove it to him._

"'Ow much farzer?" Francis asked as they were close to reaching level ground from the sloped path they'd been walking down. There was forest to their right and several bushes to their left, and he was fairly sure that there was a lake beyond those. He couldn't keep the slight laugh of amusement he had from watching Arthur so earnestly lead him out of his voice, and he knew the other had heard it, too.

"Not far at all—and you're a grown man, so you can be patient, anyway," he snapped, glancing to his left and frowning at the little smile Francis had on his face because he felt like he was being patronized. They were nearing the small opening in the forest that would bring them through the trees, now—and within the minute, they came out on the other side, which held a small, shimmering lake.

It was then that Arthur finally stopped walking, and Francis turned to look at him.

"So zis is it? Are we going to see some faeries now?"

Ignoring Francis's mocking tone, Arthur let out a sharp breath. "If they decide they want to come out…." After waiting several seconds with nothing, he became quite impatient himself and started walking again. "Walk with me," he said, not bothering to check if Francis was complying because he knew that he would.

If only to humor him some more, Francis met Arthur's expectations and hurried to catch up with him and didn't protest as they got to the lake and walked side by side along the edge. He felt quite sure that neither of them would be seeing any faeries—or anything else magical, for that matter, but he had to admit that the lakeside air was nice and free of the scent of animal feces, unlike the village. And with him on the side directly next to the lake, it was a rather beautiful view. After taking a few seconds to breathe in the scene and stare out onto the still lake, he said dryly,

"I don't know about you, but it seems zat zey aren't coming—"

"_Shh_!" Arthur frowned and hushed him immediately, as he needed silence to try and concentrate in order to sense the presence of the faeries that lived around there. He didn't explain further, and he was glad that Francis didn't immediately argue only to ruin his concentration again.

…Yes, he could feel it. There were definitely hints of magic in the air, and Arthur knew that his faerie friends were nearby. They seemed to be staying out of reach, however, and he was fairly sure he knew why. With that thought, he looked down and hesitated for a second in a sudden surge of fear, but the knowledge that not having the faeries show up would make him look like a fool overwhelmed that.

Unwittingly holding his breath, Arthur lifted his left hand and slowly reached over to slide it down Francis's forearm until their hands were together, and then intertwine the man's fingers tightly with his.

Both of them were too surprised by the action (though with Arthur it was more like he couldn't believe how it felt, how soft Francis's hand felt in his and how well it seemed to fit and the indescribable feeling being sent up his arm and blossoming in his chest because of it) to say anything for a second. Francis's breath hitched, and he tentatively turned his head around to look at the other.

"What…?"

"They need to see that I trust you," Arthur explained breathily, doing a rather bad job at hiding how holding Francis's hand was affecting him. It was true, anyway. He figured that otherwise, the faeries would have no way of knowing who Francis was, and it wasn't as though he was going to shout out to them the name of the man he was with. Because then Francis would have realized that he spoke to the faeries about him a lot. "Just hold on."

At that point, Francis wasn't so sure what to think of anything—he still didn't believe that faeries were going to show up, but it was utterly unexpected that the Prince would initiate contact like this. He didn't know whether to be glad that Arthur was finally getting the courage to do something like that or worried that he truly _was_ insane, for he was willing to _show affection_ to prove something that couldn't have been real.

But not more than ten seconds later, just before he'd been about to say something, something particularly shiny caught his eye from across the corner of the lake and seemed to glimmer. He automatically assumed that his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because of _course_ faeries would be on his mind, so it was just a trick—but then Arthur squeezed his hand in a way that was pretty obviously saying that he saw it too.

For the next several seconds, all it was was sparkling in the distance that wasn't anything solid, but it soon became what looked like butterflies or some other insect—and then, as they neared, he could very clearly make out tiny, human-shaped bodies. All Francis could do was stare and blink rapidly, utterly confused but also mesmerized at the sight of them. He didn't even realize that he was still actually walking with Arthur until the Prince stopped both of them, as the three fluttering little faeries were now in front of them.

"This is Francis," Arthur said at once, though he figured they all would have guessed that. The man in question was still silent for another few seconds.

"…_Faeries_," he finally said, the word coming out in a single breath. It was to confirm to himself that he truly was seeing this and not dreaming or suffering from some drug-induced hallucination.

"I did tell you," Arthur muttered, smirking at Francis's wide-eyed and childlike expression of wonder. "I wasn't lying…."

"_Bonjour, Francis_…," said the one French faerie out of the three—and Arthur had guessed this would happen. "_Je suis Cherami_." She went on in her mother tongue to say that Arthur had told them about him, and the Prince understood it enough to know what she was saying. But he supposed that wouldn't cause much damage….

Francis let out a laugh of wonderful disbelief—not only was he talking to a creature he'd stopped believing so much in when he'd been a child, but she was also speaking French. He couldn't stop smiling, especially because of simply how lovely the faerie's voice was. As someone who greatly appreciated beauty in all forms, something as unique as them was impossible to get used to. Not within a minute, anyway.

He went on talking to her a little in rapid French, wanting to ask her why she was in England, but he was interrupted by another one of the faeries flitting around to the back of his head and settling herself on top of it.

"You weren't lying about his hair, Arthur," Tinker giggled, looking like she might have been on top of a very soft and blonde rock considering her size. "Not even the male faeries have hair this long…." Giving a thoughtful look for a second, she grabbed a strand of Francis's hair and yanked it out, then immediately rolled it up so that she could put it in her dress of leaves to keep.

It was nothing to him, but Francis still gave a joking "Ow…" and rubbed at his head when she flew off of it. Then realizing that Arthur was still there, he tightened his grip on the Prince's hand and looked reluctantly away from the faeries to him.

"…If it's true zat faeries live 'ere and zey talk to you, zen are all ze ozzer creatures you speak of truly 'ere as well?"

For a while—what felt like the entire day and was, in fact, at least a few hours of it, Arthur brought Francis further and further into the world that used to be only his own. He didn't show him everything, but he explained all that he could about what he'd already tried to countless times before. Except now the man was at least willing to listen—more than willing, even. And it was both interesting and very amusing to see Francis look so genuinely fascinated. But he supposed that it was natural for someone who'd only just been introduced to that world to be so amazed. Just like he had been, so long ago.

Later, when Tinker, Cherami, and Lilley decided that they ought to return to their fellow faeries (even _they_ had duties… of a sort), Arthur had nothing to do but sit. And after having only stood and walked for a few hours, he would have wanted to relax his legs, anyway.

"You should be grateful, you know," Arthur said quietly and calmly, facing the lake. Unlike it often was when he spoke, there wasn't any hidden meaning or edge behind his words. He was just saying it. "I don't think they've talked to any human but me in a long time…. I'm quite sure they would not have shown themselves to anyone with whom I did not share a bond." Those last words came out slowly and with a strange feeling, as though they were not his own—as though they had come out of their own accord. But they were true.

"…A bond?" said Francis, raising a curious eyebrow at him and suddenly desperately wanting to know exactly what Arthur meant. "What kind of bond?"

"I—" _Shite_, he somehow hadn't expected that. He could already feel his face going red and a pain in his chest. "I don't know, any kind—friendship… or something," he hastened to say, and it was clear to both of them that it was a bad excuse. There was no denying that they were close, but they both knew that there was no chance he was going to say that directly.

"Hm."

Francis smirked and shifted his grip on Arthur's hand, which he hadn't let go of at all since it had first been grabbed earlier.

* * *

**Holding hands is all you get for now. But you know, if you've done your own share of research on the time period, then you'd know that small gestures like that meant a lot and it was pretty much courting if you did it in a formal way.**

**Alright, that's enough using history lessons to be really obvious about where this story is going. Of course you know it's a love story, but if I talk too much about the plot, then... yeah. NO SPOILERS FOR YOU GUYS.**

**As always, I love everyone who has reviewed, followed and/or favorited this story, and I would love it if you guys left a review. ^_^**


	8. Not on purpose

**HEY LOOK ANOTHER CHAPTER. This one's the longest so far, and that because there was an important scene at the end that ended up being pretty long, and I wasn't going to cut it out. So you guys get an extra-long chapter.**

* * *

When the King returned to the castle, hardly anyone in the village knew right away. It was in the middle of the afternoon that five men on horses (four of them being guards; the King always needed protection with him), all bearing the royal crest, rode within the barriers of the capitol—but they had come from the side opposite the village, where there were mainly farmers sparsely placed around the main road. They had left in that direction in the first place both because it was the faster route to their destination and that it would keep the general public from knowing automatically that their King was leaving. Of course, the knowledge had spread as it always did when that sort of thing happened, but not at once.

And so a few farmers knew. All the knights knew, and some of them were probably careless with the information later that evening (not that it really mattered) at the tavern. The Queen and Peter knew. And then Arthur learned of the return around the time that all the villagers did, as he'd been at his usual spot in the forest when it had happened and didn't return to the castle himself until later.

His spirit fell considerably and far back into his usual irritability when he saw the extra horses outside. Enough that he actually considered just going around to one of the secret side-entrances and going to his chambers without having to greet his father—and knowing how much the man disliked him, he might not have even sent out any search party better than a single servant or perhaps just Peter. But he knew he had to see him at some point, and he actually was rather starving.

Besides, the guards had already seen him.

As his naturally good timing usually allowed, his family (along with some of the servants that were on break) was just getting ready to eat when he arrived in the dining hall. The only person not yet sitting once he was seated was his father, who had been pacing at the head of the table and decided to sit down last. It was one of those things the man did when he was feeling particularly important, and thus it was one of those things that annoyed Arthur to no end.

"Ah—been lazing about the entire time I was gone?" was the first thing his father said once he'd sat down. Of _course_ the first thing he thought to say was something negative toward his oldest son.

"I've neglected no duties, just as I normally don't," said Arthur through gritted teeth, avoiding looking at the man. He was half-tempted to just skip straight through the prayer they were meant to do before eating and just dig in to what was on his plate in order to take his mind off the man at the end of the table.

"A relief, then…," his father said smoothly, something in his tone that Arthur couldn't place but really didn't like. And still, he didn't seem about to initiate the prayer, which meant he had more to say. "Not even your French lessons? I imagine you would jump at the chance to avoid learning a language that you appear to hate—"

"_No_, Father—" His voice rose in frustration, and the expression he locked on the King as he looked up was one of anger. "My studies have been going well, and I have not missed a single lesson—"

"Ha, lessons aren't all you've been doing with Francis…." The unexpected interruption came in the voice of Peter, who seemed to be trying not to crack a laugh. Strange, how he found that so funny when Arthur's heart immediately stopped in panic and his father turned to give both of them a somewhat alarmed and concerned look.

"And what does that mean?" he said, his voice on edge and his eyes narrowed.

"He—"

"I have been sparring with him on the days that I normally practice my sword-fighting with you," Arthur cut in firmly, making sure his younger brother could not say anything.

He was sure that Peter had been about to mention the Sundays that he would go off and spend the entire day with Francis, but of course his father already knew about that. And the things that had gone on during those days, Peter didn't know. Or at least he shouldn't have known.

Before the King's response came, Arthur shot Peter a nasty glare that neither of them broke for several seconds.

"Francis has been sparring with you? Hm… is the Frenchman any good, or did you beat him down without effort?"

Turning the glare to his father, Arthur didn't hesitate to say, "Very good, actually. The man's surprisingly skilled." It was strange, he mused, how he was so quick to defend Francis when other people were talking about him, but not when Francis was there.

His father narrowed his eyes. "I see…. Interesting."

Without another word, he began the pre-supper prayer.

* * *

Arthur only held onto his disappointment until the next morning so he could complain about it a little to Francis, who always stayed quiet and listened during his complaints—and then insulted him for being such a child after he was done, which caused a small row between the two of them and interrupted the time that should have been spent on the French lesson.

And that was the typical day for them, which meant that everything was normal, for which Arthur was glad. It wasn't as though a mere fortnight of not having his damn father around had spoiled him.

On the third day since his return, Arthur was unexpectedly summoned to the King's office almost immediately after Francis left the castle. He frowned at the servant who had relayed the message to him and shooed her away, then remained sitting at the chair behind his desk for another several seconds just to wonder what his father might have wanted with him right now. This sort of thing was almost never good, and so he nearly considered just not going. Except he was kind of obliged to.

Every step of the way through the stone-walled corridors was worriless—until he entered his father's office and suddenly had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like whatever the man would have to say. He could feel the scowl on him for his disrespect in not knocking before he even saw his father's face, but as usual, he didn't care. It did occur to him, though, that this must have been particularly important for his father to be standing in front of his desk rather than sitting.

"I have news, Arthur," he said as soon as the door swung back on its arc and shut with a loud click. His tone wasn't dry, but it wasn't quite anything else, either. It almost sounded like he was about to sugarcoat whatever it was, And his arms were folded behind his back, which meant he was very serious. Arthur didn't say anything but just waited for the old man to continue. At which he began pacing. "During my stay with my brother, he informed me of his friendship with Prince Llewellyn of the Gwynedd Kingdom of Wales. I'm sure you know how we've been at odds with their kingdom as well as the rest of Wales for a relatively long while… but as I'm also sure you know, Llewellyn has a daughter by the name of Gwenllian. She is one year your senior and has yet to find a suitable husband—and when I discovered this, I seized the window of opportunity and sent a messenger out to request that the Prince consider an offering of peace and you as a husband for his daughter—"

"What—?—_No_!" Having realized what all of this was about several seconds before his father had indirectly mentioned marriage, Arthur had spent that time simply unable to process the thoughts. The idea of being married off to a woman—especially one that he didn't even _know_—horrified him, and every fiber of him was protesting the notion with utmost stubbornness. He refused to do this. That much was out in the open for he had unwittingly taken a step back and shown his disgust on his face.

"You may be young, Arthur, but you need to face responsibility!" his father practically shouted, flaring up at the argument and displaying obvious frustration in Arthur's overall existence. "It shall be long before the day that someone other than I must assume the throne, but if you ever want to become King, then you _must_ do this. It is for the sake of maintaining peace, and for the good of both our kingdoms and all the people in it!"

"Then why don't you just allow Peter to take the throne in my place, as you obviously dislike the prospect of _me_ sitting on it!" Arthur retaliated, struggling to keep himself from raising his voice to the point that his throat would hurt. He realized that he was now in a defensive position, his fists balled at his side and seemingly ready to grab a sword, and his neck outward like a wolf would do to challenge another.

"You know very well that I cannot do that…. No matter how much better he may turn out to be, you are the oldest, and it would be breaking tradition to push you out of the line for the throne." His father was breathing heavily now, his voice on edge. "And now, as you are not yet the King, this is not your decision—it is _mine_. You and I are to ride out to Wales under protection from fire from royal armies in their lands at the first sign of dawn in one week, and if all works out well, then you shall marry Gwenllian. There is nothing you can yell at me or hit me with that will change my mind on this matter, and I suggest that you find the mind to agree with it!"

At that, the King drew himself up and stood firmly with a look in his eyes that confirmed he indeed intended to say nothing more on the matter. That didn't stop Arthur from retorting, however—

"You say that I face responsibility, _Father_, and then you say that I cannot make my own decisions! You will not force me to marry a woman I don't know and do not love—I will not _allow_ you—"

"_You_ will not allow _me_?" The man then practically laughed in his face—or at least he would have if it weren't for his clear anger overwhelming that. "I shall say it one more time, and that is that you _will do what I say_! You will know her and possibly _learn_ to love her once you meet her in little over a week. Now leave my quarters, as I refuse to listen to any more of your idiotic complaints. …_Now_!"

Pausing to catch his father's gaze and return the look of utter hatred, Arthur finally complied and turned to open the door harshly and walk quickly down the corridor like a child who had thrown a tantrum as he slammed the door behind him.

Except the horrible feelings arising in his chest and the tears of frustration in his eyes were much different than that of a small child's, and this marriage was certainly a good reason for him to be so upset.

* * *

For the several days that followed, Arthur refused to look his father in the eye. He was too overcome with anger and frustration just by _thinking_ about the man and what he was going to make him do, anyway.

Marriage… That was something that hadn't even occurred to him yet. Well, it wasn't as though he didn't think he'd ever have to get married someday—his future responsibilities had been clear to him from the day he knew that he would someday be King. But Arthur was merely seventeen years of age. If it wasn't for the apparent political troubles that needed fixing, he would likely have waited at least five more years for this.

His father had pretty much told him that those troubles meant that this was his responsibility. His mother would surely tell him the same thing, as well as the whole of the English army and every Lord of every manor and possibly even the majority of the people in the kingdom. And Arthur knew what was expected of him as the Prince and future King—he knew that it would be selfish of him to put his feelings before the people, but frankly, he didn't care. Being selfish was a part of him and _he didn't bloody care_ because he couldn't possibly marry a woman he didn't love when his feelings were so uncontrollably pointing in the opposite direction.

It occurred to him that his father might have done this on purpose. He tried not to think about the man discovering anything about Francis.

There were no mixed feelings anywhere in that mess. The entirety of Arthur's being was so against it that it hurt. What hurt more was keeping everything he felt about the whole thing inside, as he simply couldn't tell Francis. Even though he knew it would be necessary for him to mention it at some point.

And yet, as though he knew his son's thoughts and strived to do everything to ruin his life, the King _had_ to mention it during breakfast the day before they were to leave to Wales:

"I hope you've been studying French well enough lately to go more than a week without lessons, Arthur…."

It was soon before Arthur and Francis had been about leave the hall and go up to his chambers, and he was fairly sure his father had calculated it that way. Because it didn't seem like it could be any other way. Arthur froze and internally panicked at once, and Francis just looked in between the Prince and the King with a confused expression and a "Hm?" through his still-chewing, closed mouth. Peter giggled and Arthur was too panicked to shoot him a glare.

"He is traveling with me to Wales come tomorrow, and so he'll be away from the castle for several days…. Have you not informed him yet, Arthur?" The way he said it was deliberate; Arthur knew. And now all eyes were on him, and suddenly all he felt was just anger and hatred for his father as he gripped the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"That should be obvious, shouldn't it?" he snapped, his upper lip curling and his voice as on-edge as it could be with his self-control being attempted. Francis was still looking at him as though waiting for an explanation, but he purposely ignored it. "I think I'll be finished with my breakfast, then."

He didn't even bother throwing out a beckoning arm to Francis, as he never felt like he needed to anymore. And he also wasn't so sure whether he really wanted the man to follow.

But of course, once Francis caught up and they were both in the corridor and definitely out of earshot of the dining hall, there were rapid questions flung into the air.

"Arthur—?—Where exactly in Wales are you going for so long, and so soon after your fazzer returns from his trip, too? And why am I only knowing now?—I am ze one _teaching_ you, so obviously I would need to know if you were leaving—"

"Good God, Francis, calm down!" The anger directed at his father not yet abated, he was still rather snappy, and he couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. That did shut Francis up for now, though, and they both continued to remain silent until they were in his chambers.

"Are you going to tell me now?" Francis said calmly once the doors were closed, without making to sit down just yet.

It was just that. No coercing, no more insistent question. It was almost as though Francis was actually voluntarily giving him the option to say "No, I'm not going to tell you," and he had half a mind to do so—he was the Prince, anyway, so of course he could do that. But the man needed to know at some point, and he would only have made himself look more suspicious if he just refused to answer.

Silent for another few seconds, Arthur finally said, "I am to meet with the daughter of the Prince of Gwynedd and see if we can work out a marriage."

He kept walking to his desk and didn't look back at Francis while he said it, for he didn't know if he could handle that. His stony expression faltered and his voice almost choked at the word "_marriage_."

Francis didn't continue walking to the desk. "…What?" His voice was slightly breathy, as the shock had taken the air out of his lungs. And he could feel a thick sadness growing in him, but he wasn't sure whether or not that showed.

"You heard what I said—I have to meet a Welsh princess on the basis of possibly marrying her," Arthur repeated, suddenly not having to try all that hard to sound casual and like this didn't matter at all but for his voice being on edge (which was normal for him, anyway)—though he felt like he might have been going mad with that. "That is why I'll be away for over a week. And that's what you wanted to know, so now we can begin the lesson," he finished, lighting one of the candles to begin the official time.

The sadness thickened, and Francis could almost feel himself swaying where he stood in sudden lack of control of his body. It wasn't because of the marriage—it was because Arthur didn't seem to _care_…. But he still held himself normally as he went over to his usual chair with an air of resignation.

Francis might have gone on with some teasing about the marriage both to reestablish the normalcy and to make himself feel better, but he didn't know if that was a good idea. He felt sure he would be getting into a sensitive conversation that Arthur would even refuse to be a part of—and really, that would be going too far. So instead he began the lesson with where he remembered leaving off yesterday, completely ignoring what had just happened.

Or trying to, anyway.

Now that he'd told Francis, Arthur was finding it progressively harder and harder to stay composed and forget his feelings. Throughout the lesson, he eventually found himself struggling to focus on translating sentences from French to English, as the prospect of marriage was steadily getting heavier and heavier in his chest, dragging him down and making him want to say something, to cry, to hit someone… to do anything.

And yet he still managed it. He managed a fairly long time. It helped that their lesson actually did slip somewhat back into normalcy and that both of them couldn't keep themselves from teasing or insulting each other for too long—since, of course, there was always irrelevant conversation tucked here and there in the French lessons, and they didn't often remember how they started in the first place. But they both really needed that, for a day without them bickering over trivial things wasn't a day at all.

It wasn't until there was no more than a half an hour left in the lesson that a wave of depression hit Arthur particularly hard. As he wrote out a sentence that Francis had told him to write, his hand and the quill slowed—almost on their own. So did his breathing. And seemingly out of nowhere it hit him—it _really_ hit him, that he couldn't keep all of this to himself. Francis had become the one person in his life he could share things with, and the reason he'd had before not to share it with the man was wearing away, getting weaker. He tapped the parchment with the quill to end the sentence and then set the quill down.

"I _really_ don't want to get married, Francis," he said quietly and slowly, keeping his eyes on a random notch in the desk rather than the man's face.

All Francis could do for the moment was stare at him with slightly widened eyes. That had been rather unexpected, but at the same time relieving. Without having realized it had been so painfully heavy the past hour, he felt his chest lighten. And then it occurred to him that the notion that Arthur didn't care really _had_ been stupid—and that he must have been aware all along.

"I know," he said in the same tone, shifting in his seat and leaning over slightly in an attempt to see Arthur's face. The Prince looked up from the desk at him after several seconds, but that was only for a brief moment before he stood up from his chair and stood up completely, then walked away from the chair. His frustration and finally letting himself vent had given him the urge to move from the chair.

"I don't _want_ to marry someone I don't love…. I don't _want_ to meet this woman, and I don't _want _to share a life with her," continued Arthur as he paced in random directions, sounding and feeling halfway in between anger and hopelessness. He knew he sounded like a child, but he didn't care. He was just glad knowing that he could say it out loud and that Francis was listening. "It's _my_ life, and if my father thinks forcing me into a marriage is going to help me become a better King…."

"'E probably doesn't tsink you'll make a good King eizzer way," offered Francis quietly from his seat, keeping his somewhat sad gaze on the pacing man. "But if 'e's insisting on making ze decisions ze 'ole way before you're actually crowned, zat will be 'is fault if you don't."

Arthur slowed down in his pacing and stopped next to his chair, which he gripped as he listened. It was a rare thing for Francis to say something wise like that—especially when it was something that wasn't mocking him. That also made it something worth listening to, even though he normally pretended not to. Now wasn't the time for him to pretend.

"Indeed it will be," he agreed softly yet bitterly, curling his lip and gripping the edge of the chair harder and looking down. And then the frustration surged in him again and he had to push himself away with it to continue the pacing, now keeping closer to the desk but still not looking at Francis for much of it. "But how much of an _idiot_ my bloody father must be!—good for the kingdom or not, how can he possibly expect me to do this? I'm only seventeen years of age—my training in combat hasn't even officially finished yet—and…. And this is absolutely ridiculous," he added, in a lower voice now.

Raising a hand to hold his head where he was now feeling pain purely from his anger, he continued, keeping that low voice: "…How does he expect me to walk straight into a marriage when… when I've had absolutely no experience at all...?"

Francis raised his eyebrows in surprise and shifted in his seat again. He'd been sitting generally quietly as he watched Arthur talk with not much to say himself, but now he felt a massive urge to say something. He didn't, however (not for the moment, anyway), and instead remained leaning a bit further out of his seat, his hands ready on the arms of the chair to push him up and out of it.

"My father is completely aware that I've never been involved in any relationship—I've never taken a woman into an affair, I've never shown any affection to any of our servants…. I have never even taken any outward fancy to any of the noblewomen or the daughters of noblemen who have come to the castle. Or inward, for that matter. Good Lord… I've never—I've… _I have never even kissed anyone_."

The last part was spoken with shame, though Arthur didn't know why he was feeling so bad about such a thing now when he'd never cared before.

Almost immediately, Francis was out of his seat and walking toward him, a half smirk on his face—which looked odd, as his surprise was not yet gone.

"_Never?_" he said incredulously, finding such a life so strange, considering his own past. Besides, it truly surprised him that no one at all would have been willing to kiss the Prince, no matter how rude he could be. "You've… not at all, not once in your life?"

Arthur stopped pacing, letting Francis face him with that stupid half-smirk. He noticed how it seemed to be more soft curiosity than actual mocking—though a bit of laughter was definitely somewhere in the man's voice. He couldn't decide whether that made him feel better or worse.

"No," he confirmed with a short and relatively quick shake of his head. "I haven't." Even with those short words, the shakiness in his voice was obvious to both of them.

Taking a visibly deep breath, Francis stepped slightly closer and let his expression fall into a soft, yet serious frown. He had to stop himself from thinking too much about how Arthur had sounded. "And… you 'ave not courted anyone eizzer. Not even… a man?"

He'd unintentionally stepped closer again, and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. It was such a small raise, though, that it might have been no movement at all. Arthur stared straight into his eyes for a few seconds and failed to control his heart-rate in that time, and it felt like someone else and not him was speaking when he breathed,

"Not on purpose."

Francis's breathing slowed with a shudder, and that was the last thing he consciously observed before a soft hand gently grabbed the side of his face and there were lips on his and stubble rubbing against his jaw.

What was left of his short breath was inhaled sharply, and Arthur didn't know how long it was that he was too overwhelmed to react. All he knew was that when his body finally caught up to his mind and he realized what was happening, he was suddenly extremely aware of the way Francis was holding his face and already moving his lips and the noise that his sharp exhale made once the man's lips had captured his. He could feel _everything_, and once he did, it was almost a shock to him how quickly he started to lean forward into it and move his lips in an effort to kiss him back.

Francis let out another noisy breath from his nostrils as he responded at once—by adjusting his lips and pulling Arthur's face tighter against his. And seemingly of its own accord, his hand slid from the side of Arthur's face down to his jaw and then around his neck and tangled itself in his hair, sliding along in the base of the tendrils and just trying to feel every bit of his hair.

Even without any experience in kissing, certain instincts took over for Arthur. He knew what felt good—and that was _everything_, because every firm locking of their lips and every repeated contact from Francis opening his mouth slightly and then closing it again to adjust his lips and every slide and tug of the man's fingers in his hair added to this _feeling_ that he couldn't remember ever feeling before in his life. It was more than likely that he hadn't. Because the kiss was searing and amazing and his entire body felt hot from the warmth pooling in his chest and stomach and face and at this point he didn't even _know_ where because everything was just on fire. And he wanted to stay in that fire forever.

Not knowing how to kiss didn't even matter after the first—what felt like—couple minutes of it, for Francis was teaching him with every moment, and he was getting used to it. Not the _feeling_, of course, but the proper way to tilt his head and slide his lips. It didn't even take that long for Arthur to slide his hand around Francis's chest to wrap that arm around his upper body and the other to tangle his own fingers in his hair and push his head closer. Even at the utter closeness they were, it still wasn't enough—it could never be enough. They both felt that.

How long the two of them were latched at the mouths—and practically at the chests, too, with how tightly they were holding each other—neither of them had any idea at any point after the first few minutes (if those had even _been_ minutes). Time didn't exist to them, everything but each other was so vague and surreal…. They were drowning in it, Arthur especially because he'd never known such a feeling in the past, and it was too thick to breathe in. Hell, Arthur wasn't even sure if he was breathing. He was consciously aware of only one thing at the moment—

Francis was kissing like a man who had wanted this for a long time. Both of them were. _Finally, finally, finally_ was ringing out in both of their heads. Thoughts of the possible marriage did make their way through the haze, but only for him to think that he wanted to keep kissing this man forever and never even step foot in Wales, let alone marry that Princess.

The thought of it made him cling tighter. It was amazing that was still possible at this point. Especially with their complete lack of a height difference that made it easy to hold onto each other. What registered as not too long after that, Arthur felt himself finally let out a breath through his mouth, and it came out as a small moan against Francis's lips—and he moaned in return. With their mouths open, they let it get more passionate.

There didn't seem to be any fixed moment for them to stop. Arthur felt almost sure that the kissing would simply go on forever—until he vaguely registered the click of a door and suddenly felt emptiness where Francis's body and lips had been. He was still disoriented when he saw his father standing in the open doorway, wearing armor and looking mildly angry.

"I see you've forgotten the date again in whatever squabble you've gotten in with your tutor this time…," the man said contemptuously, narrowing his eyes. "Francis, you may leave now—Arthur needs to don his armor for sword-practice and _behave responsibly_ for once." And with that, his father gave an arrogant head-jerk and left, leaving the door open.

Still not fully recovered from the long kiss, Arthur looked over to Francis, who was now standing a few feet away from him. He wasn't sure what sort of expression he was making (his face was somewhat numb), but he would have guessed a questioning one. The man hardly looked fazed—not much at all like he'd just been consumed in a kiss like the one they'd just had. Except for his hair—which he was actually fixing at the moment.

And then he was already walking toward the open door. Giving Arthur a charming smirk and a subtle air-kiss, he walked out with a small wave and an "_A bientôt_…."

And the door closed, leaving him to get ready for sword practice with his father. Arthur stood still for several seconds, carefully feeling his own face as though to make sure that it was still there. His heart was still pumping blood at an unhealthily high rate, and he felt hot to the core. And as everything from the past twenty minutes flashed in his mind, he felt… irrationally _angry_.

It wasn't really him feeling that, but every single feeling inside of him was so confusing that anger was the only thing left to feel. He was angry at Francis for making him feel like that, for making him feel submissive despite being the _Prince_, for robbing him of every single bodily power he had no matter how good it had felt (as he still felt physically weak in his stomach and legs), and for making him suddenly want so much just at the time that he knew he couldn't have it because he had to leave to meet a woman he was to marry tomorrow.

And somehow the expression Francis had given got to him. The man wasn't fazed. He had even been conscious enough during the kiss to push him away when he'd realized someone was about to open the door. And _there_ was that sudden fear again—it felt like Francis didn't care, like that passion had been fake. However irrational it was (and how irrational he _knew_ it was), he couldn't help but believe that none of that had been real to the other man. To Francis, this must have all been a game. A game to make Arthur want him.

Just like it always was for a man who was always so charming. A _game_, not real.

Arthur hated it. He hated the idea of it. But he still kept telling himself it was true in anger that quickly progressed to tears while he put on his armor.

* * *

**YOU GUYS CAN NEVER KNOW HOW EXCITED I WAS TO _FINALLY_ WRITE THAT SCENE. At the same time, though, I was kind of nervous to write it, since I was afraid I wouldn't do it justice. I mean, I've obviously written kiss scenes before, but that's the first time there was eight chapters of build-up for the relationship first (which of course was eight weeks of real time for me).**

**Also, just for the story's sake, _yes_, Gwenllian is Wales. But she and Llewellyn _were_ real people. Like I've said, I want to make this story as historically accurate as possible, and so I decided to use people that actually existed. Of course, King Edward was the actual king during this time, and there was a lot of fighting between England and Wales because England was trying to suppress the power of their princes and rule them and whatnot, so the conflict there and the rulers of that kingdom in Wales are all accurate. The only thing not accurate is Arthur being slated to marry her. (Although, if it weren't fact that Edward didn't have any sons named Arthur, then that would still be entirely possible because I don't think it's known whether Gwenllian ever married.)**

**But anyway, since there isn't any canon design for Wales's personification (I don't think she's even been mentioned - if Hima wants to make Wales female, that is), her human name is currently left for creative interpretation. And I'd say I'm perfectly in the right to make a real person a human version of a country's personification.**

**And you know, now that I've related FrUK to Merthur, it seems even stranger that we now have a _Gwen_ in the mix. I swear I didn't do that on purpose.**

**Anyway, that's your history lesson for today, and I'm sure a lot of you will have things to say, so please review! :D**


	9. Enough

**I'm so sorry it took so long... I've had a lot of homework lately, and I've had to hurry to finish making a cosplay for a meetup I'm going to this Saturday. But I've finally finished the chapter, so enjoy.**

* * *

While one might have thought otherwise because of his position as Prince and physical abilities that were equivalent to any knight's, Arthur was still a human, and so he still had the basic human needs. Including sleep. So he was still tired when he headed out to the front of the castle, his father in front of him and several guards behind him, as this was an abnormally early time for anyone to wake up.

Well, anyone but a peasant, anyway.

Having gotten less sleep than usual the night before, he couldn't help the slight drooping of his eyelids. Every time he let his eyes shut all the way, though, even though it was only for a second or so at a time, he was suddenly back in the previous afternoon and losing himself in a deep kiss with Francis. Of course that hadn't left his mind—that was another thing that made him at least remotely like other people. He simply couldn't forget something like _that_; he couldn't forget a single moment of it. It had been the first time another's lips had ever touched his at all, and it had been something that he'd wanted so badly to do for so long.

Except he wanted to forget that he had wanted and enjoyed that. Arthur knew that the kiss wouldn't be able to leave him, though, no matter how much he knew he shouldn't be wanting a man like that and how obvious it was that Francis was only going to hurt him. Because he certainly couldn't have _actually_ wanted Arthur…. Who could possibly want _him_?

It was all to protect his heart in the long run, he told himself.

And back in reality, he was sure that any lack of energy he had would be restored once he was on a horse and riding off with the wind hitting his face. The chill of the morning air had already started waking him further, anyway.

Once they were at the stables, his father started walking down the line a bit to get to his horse (which he refused to ever trade out for a different one—and that was probably the only similarity between Arthur and his father—which of course he tried not to think about because he didn't want to be anything like that man). Arthur noticed him saying something to one of the guards who went ahead to pick a horse at random, but he supposed that it wasn't anything that would affect him, since the King didn't throw a glance at him afterward. That man wasn't exactly the best at disguising his thoughts, especially not for a monarch.

Arthur's usual steed was at the far left end, and he made his way to her with a strange feeling of resentment twisting in his stomach, which reminded him—oh yeah, he still didn't want to do this. He still really loathed the idea of going off to meet a princess and likely marry her later despite not loving her, and it was truly impossible to deny that his long and passionate first kiss with Francis had strengthened that.

Huffing, and momentarily distracted by the sight of his breath in the cold, Arthur opened the stable door and urged his horse out of it, finding himself rather silent in the dread he felt from the reason he was going to get on that horse. He gave her nose a soft pat to tell her to stay while he retrieved the reigns from the stable. When he came back seconds later, though, he saw someone walking toward him from around the front of the castle.

He remained silent for several seconds, as he truly didn't know what to say to him—there didn't seem to be any suitable phrases to describe all the aspects of what he felt. And really, he had no idea what he really wanted Francis to know.

"Fra—what are you—where in blazes did you even _come from_ just now?" he said, frowning confusedly. It came out in not so much a hiss as it was a breath, and his eyes weren't narrowed in quite the way he'd meant to. His conflicting feelings were simply getting in the way of that.

Francis smirked and hurried up his pace a little. "I was waiting in ze castle garden for you to get out here…. I came 'ere to see you off before you left."

And without much warning, now that he was directly in front of him, Francis almost hastily raised a hand to grab Arthur's face and pull it forward so he could kiss him.

Surprised by the action, Arthur nearly didn't have any room to feel the frustration and anger he'd been feeling before (at first, anyway), and he was halfway into unwittingly raising a hand to cup Francis's face in return before he realized that he couldn't do this and shoved the man away by the shoulders, and a little too harshly.

"You idiot, what if my father saw that?" he hissed at Francis's slightly confused and hurt face, feeling his heart race for several reasons and the kiss lingering on his lips. He gestured sharply over to where the King and the guards were and quickly glanced in that direction to make sure no one actually _had_ seen.

At that, Francis let out a short laugh and smirked again, not so disappointed about the kiss being so short anymore. "Well, 'e didn't," he shrugged. "And I wanted to give you a goodbye kiss…."

He lingered on that last soft sound, as though he was going to say something more but had decided against it and instead just wanted to convey it through a look—_since I figured because of yesterday we must be more zan friends now…. _

And Arthur thought he might have recognized that look, but he refused to let himself get his hopes up that it really meant something.

"Well," he said with a quick swallow and a purse of his lips a few seconds of silence later. "I don't need your kisses." Deepening his frown and getting visibly bitterer, he looked down and turned away, back toward the horse. There was regret for saying that deep in his heart, as he truly wanted to turn back and at least pull the man into a fierce kiss before he had to leave, but he couldn't. He simply couldn't.

Meanwhile, Francis quickly assumed that Arthur was doing that on purpose and went on shamelessly, stepping forward again and saying, "A goodbye 'ug, zen—"

But less than a second after he had started wrapping his arms around Arthur's middle, he was shoved off again, and the look the Prince gave him when he turned around was one of genuine anger—mixed with pain….

"_No_!—I… I need to leave," he said through gritted teeth, the pained look getting worse with each second as he climbed up onto his horse. "I've no time to waste. Just—go home, Francis…."

He didn't look at the man any longer, but in the split second before he kicked his horse on the side and rode her over to where his father and the guards were nearly ready and waiting for him, he could see a look of deep hurt on Francis's face. And he felt like crying, but he couldn't let himself do that, especially not when they were about to ride through town and he had to hold a reputation.

Francis just remained in the spot he stood and frowned in their direction until he could no longer see the Prince's messy blonde hair or even any of the horses. It was a while before he started walking back to his house in the town.

* * *

The sight of empty grasslands and rolling hills and _just_ that for long periods of time (which was periodically broken by lengths of forest) was somewhat calming. If Arthur could just forget that there were other horses and guards riding on all sides of him, he could also forget—at least for the most part—where he was riding to. But then, with his mind practically empty, thoughts of Francis wormed their way in and then there would be an ache in his chest for a while.

After the first real ache, it refused to go away completely. Nearly every unconscious thought on his journey was of Francis, and as time went on, Arthur began to regret leaving the way he did more and more.

He might have even been making his way back to rational thought and a total lack of worry that the man was merely playing a game with him or using him. Especially because of the obvious hurt he'd seen on Francis's face.

That hadn't looked faked.

But he really couldn't afford to think like that while riding to Wales. The first stop they made to eat and let their horses get water, Arthur had to gulp down quite a bit of water himself and go sit down to get that ache to go away. And he had to resist the growing urge to lay face down on the grass so no one would see his face and try to overcome the confusion inside his mind and perhaps squeeze a few tears out.

Arthur knew having such an urge to cry made him weak in a sense, but he was fairly sure that liking men already made him pretty weak in the eyes of other men (if any of them knew for sure, anyway), and besides—he just really needed to let something out. Instead it all choked up in his throat and his father actually asked him if he was ill when he noticed his expression when they stopped for the night. And he wasn't sure whether or not it would have been a lie to say that he was.

They weren't ambushed by anyone on the way through, but one of the guards who had kept watch during the night they set up in a forest clearing told the King that he'd seen someone sneaking around in the night and that they were dead now. It wasn't more than a couple seconds later that the man had ordered everyone up and ready to ride away from that spot immediately. Somehow expectedly, Arthur didn't feel any fear of possible ambushes—and that wasn't even because of him having faith in the guards and his own fighting abilities. He was just too focused on the matters of Francis and Gwenllian to care.

Hell, dying would almost have been preferable, as it was a lot easier.

By midmorning, the scenery around them had really become different enough that Arthur could truly tell that they were in Wales, now. Well, that, and the guard who was carrying a map announcing it. But once they were out of the forested area, the castle was in sight and Arthur's dread increased.

His father didn't help it with his remark (or taunt, it seemed) of "Another two hours' ride to your future wife, Arthur…!" And he could have sworn he heard a cruel laugh in the man's voice, too.

They reached the castle around the King's estimated time, and Arthur's dread increased with every step their horses took on the stone walkway up the hill that led to the front of the castle. Still, he could tell the stark difference between Wales and England. It was much grassier here. And he was sure he would have appreciated the beauty of it—he tried not to think of how much Francis would appreciate it—if he wasn't more focused on the fact that he was essentially riding straight on to a forced marriage.

Guards stood, spaced, on either side of the path, and they remained as still as though they were completely unaware of the presence of several men. Arthur would never have said it out loud (especially not in front of his father), but it really seemed like the kingdoms of Wales had guards more orderly than those in England.

And if there had been no letters between his father and Llewellyn beforehand, he was sure that the Welsh guards would have trained their weapons on them as soon as they'd arrived.

Not a second after they had all slid off of their horses, the front doors of the castle were pushed open from the inside to reveal a bearded man followed by a woman who could only have been his daughter. The man held no expression, but couldn't exactly be defined as calm or perturbed, either. He was somewhere in between, and it seemed as though this was likely his demeanor at all times.

"Edward," he greeted bluntly, making a sharp move to extend his hand.

"Llewellyn," his father returned, his face just as calm. "I apologize that there is not basis for us to greet each other as old friends or current allies, but I do hope that will change with mine and Arthur's stay." His eyes then flickered to Arthur for a split second, as did Llewellyn's.

That was clearly a cue for him to introduce himself to the Prince's daughter—and Arthur was seriously considering just purposely making himself look bad to the Prince of Wales so that he wouldn't have to get married, but his pride and desire to not humiliate himself got in the way of that. That, and the prospect of his father punishing him for not playing along with this thing.

So he stepped forward and reached out to take her hand like it was proper for a man to do to a lady, and forced an expression that didn't make him look like all he wanted to do was go home. Not necessarily a smile, though.

"Lady Gwenllian," he said professionally, and in spite of his effort it was painfully obvious how insincere he was. There was always that air with him whenever he talked to women that most men would be instantly infatuated with or at least want to be flirtatious with. Because he could see that she was definitely beautiful, with her long, dark hair and curvy figure—according to most people's standards. He was wholly apathetic to the sight of her as well as any other woman.

"Prince Arthur," she greeted, smiling. She didn't appear extremely enthusiastic about meeting him, but her small smile made it seem as though she might have had bad predispositions about him that had gone away now that she'd seen him. Arthur figured it was because she found him attractive, for which he wasn't surprised because many women did tend to find him attractive—and not just because of his royal status, either.

"I admit I haven't heard _very_ much about you, my Lady, but it is still a pleasure to meet you."

That was a lie. Arthur didn't want to be here. Even in knowing that there was no way he could just leave and go back to England, he at least wanted to head straight to whatever room Llewellyn was giving him and stay there for the rest of his time here. And once again, there was the coldness. Not in his voice, but in his eyes, where his forced look of calmness didn't reach. It was all because that was simply what it was proper to do.

"The same to you, my Lord."

And then Gwenllian's father was gently moving her aside so he could shake Arthur's hand as well. Of course he would want to personally know the man who would be—Arthur internally cringed at the thought—marrying his daughter.

Arthur bore through it and kept his expression calm until Llewellyn finally said that they would now be directed to the rooms he and his father would be staying in—and as soon as the chance arrived, he let his face fall. Knowing that he had to put up a front to hide the pain was actually making his pain worse.

He avoided looking at his father the entire way through the castle (which was easy, because he managed to get distracted with looking around at how differently structured this castle was from his own), but there was no escaping his father when the guards brought him to his temporary chambers: The King grabbed Arthur by his shoulder and turned him around rather than leaving immediately and said evenly,

"I expect you to keep this behavior consistent, Arthur. I know you don't wish to marry, and we both know that is irrelevant. I swear to you—if you purposely get out of this marriage, you will never be King. I shall see you at dinner."

It was funny, how casually he'd said that last bit before he turned around and left with the guards to his own room. Almost like he actually wanted to be a real father for a second.

Arthur didn't sit down for a while, but just stood and stared at the door and thought of how he would _have_ to obey his father for his own good and also how terribly he _didn't_ want to—and the dread, once again, increased with every passing second. By the time he did manage to sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, Gwenllian knocked on his door to tell him that the small feast had been prepared and then walk down to the hall with him. He put up that front again.

It wasn't as though it was difficult to be polite around her—she was a pleasant, yet not overly-nice person, and she _was_ royalty—but he simply didn't want to move forward in the pre-marital side of things. He wouldn't have minded sitting down across from her at the long table if it hadn't meant any sort of future for them. That future that their fathers were hoping for almost made him dislike her on principle.

Once the meal was over, Arthur claimed to be tired from travel and bowed his head in respect to Llewellyn as he started to make his way out of the hall. And when Gwenllian asked if he would like her to walk with him back up his room, he cursed himself that he couldn't refuse—which was actually partly because he wasn't sure if he would remember which room it was.

When they were at the threshold of his door, Arthur could tell by her expression that she was making a real, proper effort to get to know him and like him, and so he knew that she was likely serious about this marriage. He kept his own act up until the door shut, at which he broke down and immediately headed to the bed because he just really needed to lie down now—and he needed to squeeze something very hard and stop keeping in all the pain while he was alone and just cry. So he rolled onto his side, bit down on the pillow, and did just that.

* * *

The next few days were strictly calculated—not just by Arthur's and Gwenllian's fathers, but also because Arthur just felt like he was being pushed into jerky movements and decisions against his will the entire time. Every moment he spent at the castle and of course every moment he spent _with the_ _Princess of Wales_ was forced, and he could not get away. All he really wanted at several points during the stay was to leave the presence of everyone else and go get on his horse and ride off to at least the nearest forest so he could be alone and think on his own. Because for some reason, staying in that room only brought on more thoughts of Francis.

But of course anything would have brought on thoughts of that man. This entire trip was to secure a marriage that he never wanted to have, and there was no denying to himself—especially not during the hours he would lie in the bed in his room before falling asleep—that it was because he had someone else he loved back home. Really, though… that much had been obvious since the start, and Arthur didn't think he had even made an effort to forget that.

This damn marriage was everything that was wrong with his world right now. If not for his father's plans, there would never have been any event of passion between him and Francis, and there would be no confusion and horribly mixed feelings in him right now. There would have been no ambivalence over his refusal to forgive Francis and let go of those irrational feelings and his regret that he had left the way he'd done. Whether or not the lack of that _kiss_ would have been worth it… he couldn't answer himself.

However, Arthur and Gwenllian were getting along well—in their fathers' eyes, at least. His obligatory courting had been stiff and straight-to-the-book, but no one seemed to mind. Even his father wasn't going to try to force him to actually _love_ her….

* * *

Only four days, and yet Arthur felt like a year had passed and he had been chained up inside the castle for that time. While he should have been relieved to finally return to England, it almost didn't feel like anything. He was too numb—or perhaps it was just surreal for him to take in: Those had been the four days that he had spent here in Wales to gain the favor of Llewellyn in order to marry his daughter. And according to what his father had told him the night before, it was practically set in stone now. There was no getting around it at any time in the future. No getting around it at all.

He was stuck with the fate to marry a woman he'd known for merely four days.

_And I've known Francis for months…,_ he thought vaguely, and it echoed in his head as he packed up the small bundle of personal things he'd brought before heading down the staircase to the hall.

Almost without him being consciously aware of it, Arthur had reached ground level and was bidding Llewellyn and Gwenllian farewell. His movements were still stiff and controlled, as though he wasn't in charge of his own body but merely sitting outside of it and watching himself get sucked further into this. He didn't want to believe that the Prince of Wales looked content and that his father was smiling—he didn't want to believe that everything had gone right because he'd really wanted to make himself out as awful to Llewellyn so that he wouldn't have to go through with this. But it was already set in place, and Arthur knew that it would simply be a few more months before Gwenllian came to stay in their castle, and he would formally propose to her and then have to wait until he turned eighteen because her father didn't wanted her to marry someone who wasn't officially of age.

And that's how it was going to go. No arguing.

As he shook her hand lightly, Arthur wondered if she resented this marriage as much as he did—if her efforts were merely an act of perceived duty, and if perhaps she had someone else she loved as well. He wondered if she'd argued with her father over this person or even without any third party because she felt she was too young to be married. He didn't think it would matter in the big scheme of things, but he'd have just liked to know that he wasn't the only one suffering in this.

And he felt a twinge of regret for never having asked her about that in their obligatory time together when he and his father left the castle and were met with all of their guards readying their horses for them. But then that was overwhelmed with relief that he was finally going back home.

_To Francis,_ he unwittingly added in his mind. Although he wasn't sure what he was supposed to _do_ when he got back to him… considering the way they'd parted. Arthur still remembered that look of hurt. It was so much different than any look of indignance he'd ever been given for insulting the man—it was the sort of hurt that he didn't like to cause. Not in Francis, anyway. Not even for a man he was still so sure returned his feelings only with the desire for some sort of manipulative game.

On the way home, he still couldn't convince himself that every touch of hands and hair and lips they'd had—which hadn't even all been on _that_ day—had actually meant something to Francis. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to, though.

The journey home seemed to be entirely anticipation for Arthur, but he was constantly going back and forth between wanting and not wanting what he was anticipating. He just didn't know. And it felt awful that he had to feel these things while around his father and a whole bunch of guards for the day and a half it took to ride home. A bit longer, actually, since there were a couple complications that cost them time. Not that their time really mattered all that much.

When they reached the castle at last, it was already getting almost too dark to see because of the dark grey clouds overhead, and Arthur was still numb. He didn't feel like he'd even gotten back. He just knew he was back to where he would be able to fix a mistake he'd made, but he had absolutely no idea where to start with that or if he even wanted to do it. So he just followed his father in silence into the main hall and hugged his mother hello and sat down for the supper that had been waiting for him.

Just another normal evening for them, then.

He remained silent all throughout his meal, still numb—until the King decided to comment and the man's voice finally reached his ears after three times of him unwittingly shutting it out—

"Good Lord, Arthur—are you listening to me?"

He snapped his head up and looked over, not sure whether that was an edge of amusement or anger in his father's voice.

"If you didn't have your head in the damned clouds, you would have heard me say that I'm impressed you're no longer arguing about this marriage," he went on.

"I still refuse to get married to that woman," Arthur said bitingly and unthinkingly, feeling a stab of pain. It was better than the numbness.

His father narrowed his eyes and seemed to struggle with himself before saying, his voice on a very noticeable edge now, "That _woman_ is your future wife—"

"Not if I don't want her to be!" Arthur frowned more intently down the table, his voice rising.

"I and Llewellyn have made our decisions and you have complied thus far, and you cannot refuse it! There is—"

"You think I complied because I _saw your reasoning_?" Everything he'd felt over the past week now manifesting itself into anger, Arthur was starting to lose sight of reason or any need to control himself, and that was evident enough in the way he abruptly stood up. "I complied because I had no other _choice_! You may be at peace with the people, but you are a tyrant in this family and if only for that, then _what kind of bloody King are you_—?"

"ENOUGH!" the man bellowed, visibly startling his mother and Peter, who jumped in their seats as they watched in at least somewhat fear. His father had already stood up himself, and he didn't hesitate to walk around the side of the table to face Arthur directly—and he stepped away from the table as well. "You are behaving like a child—and I was correct to believe you will never be fit for the title of King…. But you are set to marry Gwenllian, and that is the life you will have!"

"You mean the life _you_ decided I will have—YOU are what is ruining me, what's making me less fit to be King! You're the immature one, trying to take my dignity away piece by piece and forcing me into all of these unnecessary duties when you clearly don't want me to ever take your throne! You're just _waiting_ for the day that Allistor shows up at the castle gates and takes his rightful position back even though we all know he's likely _dead_, aren't you?—Even now, you still favor him! Why don't you just go join him in Hell—?"

As Arthur's voice had gotten louder and louder, his father's face had gotten redder and redder until he finally hit him across the face with a look of rage. And he heard a simultaneous gasp from his mother and brother, which he wasn't sure was because of what he'd said or what the King had done.

"You _dare_ speak to me that way…?" The look his father was giving him made him look like he wanted to murder him. It was narrowed eyes and a scowl so low his jaw might have been dislocated. But he managed to calm his voice and his hands down within several seconds. "…Get out of my sight. I don't want to see you."

He was surprised that he hadn't heard a _"You're not my son."_

Recovering from the hit and stumbling back into a standing position before he could fall over, Arthur glared at his father with utmost hatred and refused to let himself rub the side of his face that stung.

"Yes, well, I don't want to fucking see you, either," he spat. And he proceeded to obey his father, but not by heading up the stairs like the man must have been expecting.

He didn't want to be anywhere near him. So, without thinking, he turned on his heel and walked straight away from all of them to the entrance hall and outside to leave the castle.

* * *

**I think this chapter was primarily angst... And it was a little hard to write because only a small part of it was actual interaction between Arthur and Francis. But don't worry, the next chapter will get better!**

**And in the meantime, it would be great if you reviewed. And for everyone who has, I really appreciate the feedback! ^_^**


	10. Love must be a sin

**Once again, school kept me from posting this as early as I'd have liked to, but at least I didn't have to put it off for too long. Also, long chapter is long because of reasons. Reasons that you can probably guess if you're observant.**

* * *

Arthur ignored the castle guards as he passed the gates. He thought for a second that they might question him as to where he was going (perhaps going by his father's orders?) and prepared a retort in his mind, but he remembered within the next few seconds that they were pretty much required to mind their own business when it came to the royal family. So they were silent when he passed, and for all Arthur knew they might not have cared at all.

Except they must have been at least curious, as the Prince had never done anything like this before—he'd never just _left_ the castle this late because of his father or for any other reason. But that row just now had been too much. Arthur couldn't handle all the frustration and anger and conflicting feelings—aside from wanting to get away from that awful man, he simply needed some air.

It was rather dark, he soon realized. When he had first stepped outside the castle, he'd still been able to see a little, but it was still getting progressively darker. Well… damn, he hadn't thought of that.

Another thing he hadn't thought of (though he really should have) was that it would start raining. Of course, it rained all the time in England—especially during this time of the year—but it somehow hadn't crossed his mind until the first few drops hit his head, to his surprise. He took no more than a second to decide that the prospect of rain prevalent in his mind wouldn't have kept him from leaving, anyway. He could deal with a bit of rain.

Although Arthur did know that he didn't want to get soaked. He had begun walking up the slope to get to where he could cross the path to get to the forest and find his spot, but the past minute hadn't led him terribly far. There seemed to be limited options for him, and he knew that getting under the cover of trees wasn't going to help him. And he obviously wasn't going back to the castle; his pride wouldn't allow him to do that.

The next (admittedly the _first_, actually) thing that popped into his head was Francis's home in the lower town. Arthur was suddenly very sure that he would be welcome there, and it was actually more his undeniable desire to see the man than it was his desire to not get so wet that overwhelmed his pride toward apologizing.

It looked like that was where he was going now, because his legs practically turned him around themselves and started back down, straight to the cluster of crudely built huts and sparse stone houses. Even at the fast pace he was walking (which was getting steadily more painful for his legs), it took him nearly ten minutes to get all the way down there—and that included the few times that he had to stop himself from slipping in the now-forming mud.

Arthur would have figured that Francis's house would be difficult to find in the dark, but his legs led him straight to the front, and he knew at once and without a doubt where he was. He had just walked here too many times—playfully antagonized Francis in front of this place too many times—to forget. The thought made him uncomfortable in a way that he couldn't quite describe—which was likely because he was feeling numb at the moment: He was, for the most part, only vaguely aware of where he had gone for a second. The cold and the rain (which thankfully hadn't been all that heavy) that had soaked through a layer of his clothes was probably the cause of that.

The numbness went away long enough for him to register that he was glad no one was outside of their huts right now and also for him to have to make the completely conscious decision to knock on Francis's front door.

Wow. Knocking and waiting for permission to enter. That was strangely new for him.

When the door opened slowly to reveal Francis on the other side, Arthur noticed his tired eyes widen and then his eyebrows knit together in what looked like confusion. He just looked at the man, taking in the sight of his face after a week of not having seen it, and didn't say anything.

After a couple seconds of staring back, Francis reached forward to grab Arthur's upper arm and pull him inside with unintentional force—but not too much—and then closed the door to shut out the rain. For a moment, there was a sort of resigned look on his face—a _yes, you can come in, since it's raining and I don't want you to be out there in the rain_ face.

But before Arthur could do more than wipe a bit of the rainwater off his face, Francis frowned at him, still holding onto his arm so that he would look at him.

"…Why are you 'ere?" he said quietly, feeling his confusion overwhelm the relief. "I saw you ride back in tsrough ze town… but _mon dieu_, do you know 'ow late it is? If you wanted to see me zat bad, you could 'ave waited until morning—"

"Oh yes, I came because I _missed_ you," Arthur snapped, stepping away and brushing off Francis's hand. Of course even _now_, Francis had to have that damn arrogance…. As much as he tried to hate the man for it, though, it all came back to the actual truth of those words and how the snark in his tone hadn't even worked to mask it. His voice had broken enough to make it obvious how true it was—even to Francis, though the fact that he'd tried to say it like that at all made him angry and annoyed.

It made him more annoyed that Arthur decided to walk over and sit on his bed like he owned his house. Even though he had pretty much personally decided beforehand that everything of his was also Arthur's.

Or perhaps it had been Arthur who'd decided that.

Either way, Francis was suddenly very frustrated—frustrated about Arthur's constant rudeness and the way he'd left to Wales and the way he'd just shown up all of a sudden and the way all of this hurt him. He didn't know how he was supposed to please Arthur or if he even _wanted_ to please him in the first place—he'd always held his ground and refused to be treated as anything less than an equal to the Prince, hadn't he?

Francis narrowed his eyes at the Prince sitting on the edge of his bed, partly because of his frustration, partly because he was trying to gauge what he was thinking, and then partly because the inside of his hut was dimly lit. He remained where he stood for a second or so, just staring at him and waiting for him to look up and say something, before he sighed in defeat and started walking toward him slowly.

"Hn… Why did I even let you in?" he said quietly and with as much contempt as he could muster. Francis folded his arms and frowned at the wall instead of looking at Arthur.

"Because it's raining," replied Arthur, unexpectedly. He hadn't been able to think of anything to do or say beforehand. Looking up from his knees and up to Francis, he went on, "And because you care about me."

That hit him in the heart. Granted, considering how passionate of a person Francis was, a _lot _of things hit him in the heart—but this was different. He'd never been a part of anything like this.

"You…," he started in a low voice, looking down at the dirt floor and shaking his head slowly, before turning his head back over to Arthur with a look that he'd never seen on him before. The Prince's eyes widened slightly at how much hurt was in that look, how close to a scowl it was and how Francis had never looked like this before. And he stopped breathing once the man sat down next to him but turned so that it was much more _across_ from him—and the dim lighting made his expression look even darker.

"You _hurt_ me!" His voice became even more of a shouting whisper—so much that his French accent went away a little, and he put his hands up in front of the middle of his chest to show just how much he hurt. "I…" He trailed off with his face still contorted into one of pain, shaking his head lightly again as he regained his focus on Arthur's eyes. "You pushed me away and left me like I was notsing, and I couldn't understand why. Ze… ze first night you were gone… I cried," he admitted, once again shaking his head because it was the only way to deal with the pain. He made a jerky gesture with his hand—but Arthur grabbed his wrist before he could let it fall back down to his side.

"So did I," said Arthur through nearly gritted teeth, his eyes locked on Francis and his legs suddenly shifting themselves so he could face him more. His voice and body were shaking now, too. And he was breathing too shakily to speak for another couple seconds. "You're not the only one who hurt, Francis!—I'd felt like nothing of the day before I left was real, and I—" His voice choked there, and he had to force it back. "—and I thought you were merely playing a game with me and _I couldn't do that, Francis_—"

"Zat is _not_ true!" Francis said hastily and more huskily than before, now sounding desperate as his expression changed and he grabbed the shoulder of Arthur's tunic with the hand that Arthur didn't still have control of. "Zair was never a _game_, Arthur—what… what would make you tsink zat?"

They both paused a moment to register how suddenly concerned and sad Francis sounded, and Arthur unwittingly leaned forward a little despite Francis's grip not being _that_ hard.

"You pushed me away," he said simply, at first. "You just pushed me away so easily when my father was about to come in—"

"I 'ad no ozzer _choice_!—Surely you know what your fazzer would 'ave done to us if 'e 'ad seen…." At the thought of them being caught, Francis felt something twist in the pit of his stomach, and he moved his hand up to clutch at the base of Arthur's neck instead.

"Of course I do, but—but I couldn't have possibly realized it then! I was—I was too…" Arthur kept his mouth open but couldn't get any words out for a moment, as he was embarrassed to say it out loud. "Lost in it. Clearly you _weren't_, because you were able to hear him—"

"_Arthur_…." His expression becoming more pained, he leaned slightly closer without realizing it and shifted his hand on Arthur's neck. "I'm not like you—I've kissed ozzer people before. I knew what it felt like already…. I swear to you, I _was_ lost in it—but not so much zat I couldn't sense anytsing else. You should be glad…!"

Feeling that he'd explained it properly and thus fixed that misunderstanding that had caused all of this, Francis let out a breath and waited in silence, not moving any closer or any farther away.

But with Arthur, the relief that he'd been wrong also came with the feeling that he'd known so all along and had just been a complete and total idiot. Which was accurate. And he couldn't find any forgiveness in him, since it now felt like there had been nothing to forgive in the first place. And so he was confused. The last scraped up bits of denial surfaced, and all at once Arthur was experiencing a whole new wave of feelings that all made him want to cry. And he just had to rationalize.

"You know…," he started, blinking heavily and looking down after several seconds of silence between them, "I am supposed to hate you."

The words came out thick, and the sound of his suddenly swollen throat interfering with his voice was easily noticeable. He swallowed, furrowed his brow, and looked back up at Francis, who had just made an effort to keep his face set. And he continued, slightly shaking his own head and holding back tears.

"It's as simple as it gets when I say that I'm English and you're French or that I'm the Prince and you're a peasant—but… then you're also insolent and narcissistic and you care too little about what's important and too much about what's not. And… and with how much you've wormed your way into my life, and how you take my heart in your hands and keep it from beating with everything you say and knock me down from my Princely title to merely a person with everything you _do_…"—He suddenly had to put forth more effort to maintain a relatively smooth voice, and for a moment or two his vision was blurry from the somewhat-forming tears—"…I believe I have every reason to."

That last bit was slow, even, and deliberate. And Francis could tell. He let out a breath and briefly searched Arthur's eyes for the answer he was about to ask for—

"_Do_ you?"

That was it: short, breathy, and urgent—despite how calm he'd made it sound. His mouth had hardly moved, and he'd only raised his eyebrows slightly. It was because he felt as though, in the past few minutes, he had aged a thousand years and was now too tired and too sad. The Prince looked and felt the same.

There was a sudden pain in his chest, but no urge to cry out came to him. Arthur stared back and thought—and he didn't need to think hard. The only hard part about that was saying it. And then not even that was difficult once he'd gotten his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"…No."

Both of their hearts skipped a beat. Quite possibly the same beat, because they also pulled on each other and moved forward at the same time so that their faces collided almost violently in a searing kiss—and their hands met each other's faces after their lips did.

It wasn't like the kiss they'd had before. It began hard and desperate and painfully passionate with them clutching at each other's faces with both hands and pulling as hard as they could because _damn it all to hell_, they _needed_ it. They needed nothing but each other and every _bit_ of each other, and every moment that any bit of air stood in between their mouths was one that was full of enough anticipation to fill up a year and then enough gratification a second later to last them a lifetime.

Arthur, as dizzy as he was starting to feel, could register that this was much different than the last kiss and that _this_ was what he'd been waiting for and hoping for; and the fact that he finally had it was too much to comprehend in any other way than a warmth so hot it felt like it should have killed him enveloping his chest.

Neither of them moved their hands to the other's hair or neck until they had both shifted to have their legs fully on the small bed and overlapping with each other's if only to be closer—which neither of them realized they'd been doing until they already did. Arthur's chest—and every part of his body, really—was absolutely screaming from the closeness.

And then more, when there was a tongue that wasn't his own inside his mouth.

And then even _more_, when he was pulled by his lower back directly into Francis's lap.

With Arthur very nearly straddling his legs, Francis held his arms tightly and securely around his back and unwittingly let his lips slow down in their movement with Arthur's and then slide off and down the man's jawline. He pressed kisses to everywhere his lips could reach on the neck before him, not entirely coherent because of the passion muddling his brain but still aware that he was doing this well.

Half-because his skills in this area had been proven many times before and half-because it was very difficult to miss Arthur moving his hands involuntarily from his back to his hair and his audible, breathy moans.

Francis wasn't quite lucid enough to be completely aware of everything he was doing this time, though, for this was a situation where they couldn't get caught. He knew what he wanted and he knew what Arthur wanted, and he knew that in actuality they truly did _need_ this—and that was all passion. He could most definitely do passion. Calculating things and trying to be precise was never a good idea. He knew they'd waited far too long for this, and with the damned planned marriage and the week spent apart and everything they'd gone through, all he wanted to do was give Arthur everything. He wanted to make him feel _everything_…. _Finally. Oh mon dieu, finally._

Never having known what such kisses were even _supposed _to feel like, Arthur was physically shocked into arching his neck backward and holding tighter onto Francis's hair for several seconds. He let out a soft "Oh" and let him keep doing what he was doing, breathing in gasps and slight moans and, a couple times, letting Francis's name come out in those breaths.

As the Frenchman's mouth slid over a particularly sensitive patches of skin on his neck, he arched back again with another, heavier gasp.

"_Francis_…," he breathed, louder than anything else he'd said since this had started. His hands quickly slid down to Francis's back, and he tightened his grip. And then his next words a moment later felt like more than a whisper or a moan—more of something from deep in his chest. "Touch me…."

He needed it. There had been so many times before when he'd just wanted it, and now he needed it more than ever.

Francis gave a small nod and let out a sharp breath against Arthur's neck as he slid his hands down to the end of his tunic and then back up, underneath it, to softly move his fingers up and down his back. He felt the Prince shiver underneath his touch and immediately wanted to feel more of him—so he brought his hands around and out to blindly find the belt around Arthur's tunic and undo the fastenings. He started to push it up and off of him, but Arthur realized what he was doing and was suddenly too impatient for more touches—enough that he leaned back and momentarily away from Francis so he could pull it off himself and then toss it to the side. He didn't care where it went.

And almost without meaning to, when he moved forward again, he started tugging upward on the ends of Francis's tunic. He had it halfway off when Francis grabbed the end and pulled it off himself as well. Arthur continued to hold onto it and help him, though, so when it was off and on the ground, his arms were already around Francis's neck again, and their mouths less than an inch apart.

For what felt like the longest time, and in a wholly good sense of the term, they resumed their kiss and gradually let it get more passionate as their touches continued, both sets of hands sliding across each other's backs and chests, occasionally stopping to appreciate a particularly nice-feeling tress and muscle because it suddenly occurred to them how little they'd felt of each other before and what a shame that was. It was suddenly the most important thing that they explore and know each other's bodies the way no one else ever would. And they only let their mouths break apart for gasping breaths and to sometimes kiss down each other's cheek and jaw for a couple seconds before moving back.

It took them a few seconds to realize when Francis grabbed hold of Arthur's legs to shift them and leaned forward to push the Prince onto his back. The bed they were on was a peasant's bed and therefore not very big or particularly comfortable (it was a luxury that Francis even _had_ a real bed, actually), but that didn't matter to them. Arthur definitely preferred it to sitting up and trying to stay balanced on the other man's lap at this point.

More kisses were pressed down his neck and then back up as Francis unconsciously shifted himself over Arthur's body and slid his hands into the small crevice his lower back made with the bed. Meanwhile, it occurred to Arthur how _he_ was the one underneath Francis and he was once again being the submissive one—but that suddenly didn't matter to him anymore. All of this wasn't making him feel like less of a Prince; it made him feel _amazing_. And… _he_ was the one without experience in this. It wouldn't have made sense for him to take the lead.

Although, the thoughts made him want to be less of a receiver right now. Not necessarily because he wanted to prove his masculinity or his higher social status (as far as he was concerned, Francis was his equal in all states of affairs)—but because he realized how unbalanced and unfair this was.

So, with that sudden burst of confidence that he could do this without necessarily having to know exactly what he was doing, he pulled Francis up to kiss him on the mouth again, and then farther up so Arthur could reach his lips to the man's jawline and upper neck without stretching his neck uncomfortably.

Slightly surprised by the action, Francis let out a moan of mostly breath and moved his arms up to grip Arthur's upper back instead, so that he could hold himself up properly. He'd never been in this position while receiving kisses like that before, but he very quickly realized how good it felt to be briefly submissive even while on top—and at the same time having to be the one to turn and arch his neck to give Arthur more of it and letting himself be pulled in whatever direction Arthur wanted.

The Prince's lips soon made it back up the edge of Francis's jaw and to the bit of skin right below his ear—and out of nowhere, just as the man above him gave a small hum of pleasure from the pressure on that spot, a small but significant thought hit him.

There were now very important words building in his chest as he dragged his lips back across Francis's cheek to recapture his mouth. Arthur almost jerkily (as smooth and steady movements were somewhat difficult for him in his mind's haze right now) moved his grip from the man's upper back to his hair again, and he pulled his lips away from the enrapturing kiss to press his now-sweaty forehead against the other's.

His eyelids drooped in his recovery from the shock of the raw passion between them suddenly stopping, Francis stared into Arthur's eyes and moved his own hands up to his face. He understood that the passion was still there—but he was curious as to what the man below him was going to do, or if he just needed a breather.

Arthur did have to breathe, but he wasn't going to wait until he had gotten all his breath back before speaking. He knew the words his entire body was urging him to say, but he was somehow still above that. _Something_ just wouldn't let him do it like that, and it was far different than any sense of pride. Perhaps a bit of insecurity, though. And so the breathy words that slipped out of his mouth as he held Francis's heavy-lidded gaze and felt their hearts beat together were a bit different than he'd intended.

"Do you love me?"

For a moment, Francis couldn't respond because he was suddenly so full to the brim with feelings that he thought he might have been about to burst. It wasn't as though he'd had a past anything like Arthur's and had sought to avoid having feelings at all, but he'd never experienced them like this. Not with anyone else he'd been with.

Feeling his chest along with the rest of his body grow even warmer, and suddenly finding himself slightly shorter of breath, Francis nodded and gave a somewhat gasp-like "_Yes_."

And then he conveyed a questioning look through his eyes, moving his face slightly farther away from Arthur's to make it easier for him to see _his _eyes. But he wouldn't have had to, anyway, because he'd known Francis would want to know the same of him. He could simply feel the question in the air.

This took a little longer, though—not because Arthur really needed to think about it, but because he felt the need to slide one of his hands down to Francis's cheek first.

"My heart belongs to you, Francis," he whispered, and at once their bare chests rose together and pushed their hearts closer. _It really did belong to him._

The reconnection of their mouths was so quick that neither of them were quite aware of when it had happened. But that didn't matter to them. They were spilling their souls out to each other through all the intimate touches, and there were no consequences on their minds.

It wasn't long until the touches were no longer restricted to the upper halves of their bodies, as a single brush of Francis's hand across his chest had caused Arthur to make the first involuntary roll of his hips up into Francis's, and now they were both rolling their hips and Arthur was grabbing his backside to pull him down and harder. They could both also feel their trousers growing tighter—Arthur especially because he wore two layers on his lower half—and it was starting to become unbearable.

Through all the touches and caresses and kisses, there wasn't any conscious thinking. That's what passion was supposed to be: no thinking, just feeling. They had both spent far too much time thinking about what and how they felt and were _supposed_ to feel about each other to waste time thinking _now_, when they just wanted to _feel_ everything. Arthur felt Francis tugging at the top of the outer, loose layer of his trousers and went along with it, moving his legs up to make it easier to get them off. He felt the desire to rid Francis of his trousers and made the move to do so without hesitating—of course, he needed help.

When both of their shoes were also kicked off of their feet and their bare bodies were pressing into each other, there was an involuntary, sharp breath from the both of them. Francis took a long moment to look straight into Arthur's eyes, as though to confirm that this was real and not any sort of hallucination or illusion or the work of magic. The Prince stared back in his haze, unable to register much in the sudden, burning feeling all over his body, but still able to give him a look that was just slightly questioning—_…Are you feeling the same thing I'm feeling…?_

_Yes, of course ze answer is yes…._

Another kiss, and it's relatively short, but it's followed by more kisses that last longer each time and gradually include longer spans of time for which their tongues slide together. Another roll of Francis's hips downward, and of course it's followed by more, and now it's directly pushing their erections together and causing them to moan inside each other's mouths. And it didn't stop.

Until Francis moved his hand down Arthur's side and in between his legs and started to slide his fingers into the gap: At the first bit of pressure in that spot, Arthur let out a gasp of shock, and his eyes shot open as well. Noticing it, Francis stopped and looked at him with concern, his conscious thinking coming back and his brow furrowing into a small frown.

"That's… that's _sodomy_," Arthur said in a rasp, staring up at the ceiling in what looked and felt like panic and still catching his breath. Everything had just come to him all at once, and he suddenly wasn't sure if he was ready for this or if he could do it at all because he—he just didn't _know_…. "It's illegal, it's…"

And now he felt like he had ruined it all. All of his muscles seized up, and he simply didn't know what to do. Those didn't even feel like his own words—they were his father's words, words of noblemen and words of executioners about to hang a man for such a crime and words of priests and words of anyone he may have heard as a child, and they were coming out as though he was being forced to recite them. He'd heard and read them so many times that they were haunting him, and he suddenly couldn't forget how, in the eyes of what seemed to be the whole of England, everything he wanted was _wrong_.

"…If you don't want to do it zat way, we can just lay 'ere," Francis said softly, moving a hand up to gently hold Arthur's face. He could understand—the Prince hadn't lived a life anything like his. And he couldn't honestly say that he was disappointed, either, for a reason he couldn't really explain. Arthur's expression started to soften, but he still didn't say anything; and when he'd gone several seconds without speaking, Francis figured that this was how it was going to be and began to lower himself to just lie down normally—

But Arthur then realized what he was doing at once and suddenly knew that he didn't want that at all. It hit him even harder that all the qualms regarding this, what he was about to do with Francis, weren't even _his_—and he quickly raised one hand to Francis's shoulder to keep him up there.

"_Wait_—no, _no_, I'm sorry…." His voice came out differently now—_desperately_. Though unaware of it, Arthur almost sounded like he was begging. "I _do_ want to—that was just… shock, I don't know—but don't stop, I want this, I want _you_, I—"

Considering the lack of disappointment he'd felt before, there was most certainly a _lot_ of relief in Francis at that. He cut Arthur off with a nod and a kiss, and in the sudden return of passion, he nearly forgot that he would need something to ensure Arthur wouldn't be in pain. Being the sort of man he was, though, he always kept that sort of thing in his home—even now, when it was a few months since he'd had anyone in his bed and when he certainly hadn't expected Arthur to come.

"'Old on, just a second…" he whispered, and it would have been completely inaudible if his lips weren't so close to Arthur's ear. The Prince didn't have time to even register that this was something he should have been confused or curious about before the weight of Francis's body was no longer on him, but instead up and walking over to the very small kitchen on the other side of his house. It was hardly ten seconds before he returned with a small jar, though, as he'd organized things well and his house wasn't exactly big.

At once, he set down the jar on the ground (which was easy, considering how low his bed was) and resumed his position on top of Arthur, who looked slightly curious but all too impatient to continue at the same time.

He gave him one more kiss before inching downward until he could spread Arthur's legs easily and prop them on his shoulders. Arthur crossed them involuntarily and clutched hard at the bed when he felt the first bit of pressure at his entrance again.

"What…?" he half-gasped, arching his neck to look up at Francis a little. It_ had_ felt good, but in a way he couldn't understand. This was still new to him.

"Making sure zat it won't 'urt, _mon amour_…," whispered Francis, suddenly hating that this part was necessary. Of course he never wanted to hurt any of his partners, least of all Arthur, but it took extra time and it required a break from not having to think. And it was animal fat that he was using—he wasn't going to tell Arthur that, though. But that was really all he had. "Zis will make it easier…. Just—just relax…," he added, noticing that he was tensing up a little.

He tried his best to do that, but it was a little difficult when he was so impatient. Arthur let out another groan each time Francis added another finger and the pressure inside him increased, but he was trying not to express any of the slight pain that came with it.

"_Hurry up_," he moaned through gritted teeth after a couple minutes or so, gripping the bed harder and tightening his legs around Francis's neck. "I can handle it, just—please…."

Though he didn't quite believe he had prepared him enough, Francis nodded and pulled his fingers out, then wiped them on the edge of the bed before shifting his body back up so that his legs were underneath Arthur's, and Arthur's legs were wrapped around his back. He would have gone slower with entering if Arthur hadn't grabbed his hips and pulled him deep inside without warning, at which he let out a rather loud, involuntary moan that Arthur couldn't believe he'd caused.

"_Arthur…_"

Hearing his name moaned like that along with feeling himself being filled with Francis's erection made Arthur want to burst with all the heat that had built up in his chest. He let out a gasping moan and immediately moved his arms up to wrap around the other's man's shoulders, arching his head back into the pillow that would have been uncomfortable if he were doing anything else. He was in too much pleasure to register it.

Francis started slow, thrusting at an even pace and getting Arthur used to the feel of it, loving every gasp and moan that the man below him made. His arms remained at Arthur's sides for a while to hold onto him, but sometimes moved back up to hold his upper back just as Arthur had his. Sometimes he stayed above Arthur just enough that he could run his hand over his chest and elicit more sounds of pleasure out of him, and at other times he bent down far enough that he could have their chests nearly (if not fully) pressing together, and he could press a few brief kisses to his mouth or neck.

As time went on, the thrusts got gradually harder and faster when Francis figured Arthur could definitely handle it—and so did their kisses. Well, more passionate. That was the better word. It was slightly straining on Francis's lower back, but it was worth it, since he knew this would be sore for the both of them in the morning, anyway. The kisses were erratic and everywhere, and any time their faces were within kissing distance, they didn't stop. They went along as smoothly as the thrusts—they weren't punctuated or calculated or planned, and Arthur and Francis were hardly aware of exactly what they were doing. All they registered was the closeness and their bodies being so intimately together, and it was all there, all just moving and smooth and constant and burning and _amazing_.

One thrust seemed to hit something inside of Arthur that had him practically screaming Francis's name and then Francis bending down at once to swallow his moans and almost jerkily moving his hands to find Arthur's and intertwine their respective fingers together. He pushed their joined hands down into the bed and held tightly as they went on thrusting and sliding and kissing—and moaning out each other's names. Eventually that spot inside Arthur was hit again, and Francis felt it in his heart when he heard his name moaned like that a second time.

Arthur could never have imagined that being thrust into would feel so amazing, and if he'd had any ability to think rationally at the moment, he would have been baffled by the fact that he hadn't actually and literally burst from all the heat and pleasure in his body yet. And he actually was surprised that his pleasure could possibly increase at this point—when Francis bent down and started whispering things in French to him, it sent shivers down his spine that didn't go away. It didn't even matter that he didn't completely understand all of it. He thought that he might have whispered something back, but he wasn't quite sure.

The whispering was punctuated by moans from both of them, and eventually Francis spoke louder, just for him to say one thing in English that had somehow gotten through the haze to his conscious—

"Hn—_Arthur_…. If… if zis is wrong, zen _love_ must be a sin…."

He captured Arthur's lips again and moaned into his mouth, which he returned in his pleasure and agreement. It wasn't long before Francis arched his back to create more space between them so that he could let go of one of Arthur's hands and slide it down his stomach and take his erection in his hand.

He'd hardly realized how neglected it was, but when Francis finally had hold of it and pumped it in time with his thrusting, Arthur almost couldn't handle it. Deprived as he was of this sort of thing, he could hardly hold off for a minute before reaching his limit and releasing hot liquid between them—and giving a loud moan of "Ah—_Francis…!_"

That pushed Francis over the edge fairly quickly, and he involuntarily wrapped his arms tightly around Arthur's upper body as he did. After a few seconds of him breathing heavily with whispers of "_Arthur, Arthur_…," he slid himself out and pulled himself a bit up the bed so that he could lie halfway on top of Arthur (which was necessary because his bed wasn't very wide), keep one arm around him, and bury his face in Arthur's neck, still catching his breath.

There was a minute or so of nothing but the sound of both of them breathing, in which the heat and pleasure gradually died down but left a warm feeling that didn't seem like it was going to go away anytime soon. Once he could think clearly again, Arthur tried to wrap his mind around the fact of what he'd just done—what he'd _finally_ done. It was almost surreal, how difficult it was to believe it. But exhaustion hit him and Francis pretty quickly, and it took a bit of effort to grab the blanket that was now wadded up at the end of the bed and pull it at least somewhat over them.

Arthur weakly slung one arm around Francis's back and brought the other up to his own chest so he could join hands with the one Francis had on him, and he let his head lull over to the left so that his nose was in his hair. He felt a small kiss press into his shoulder, and with a kiss of his own that technically didn't even touch Francis's head, his exhaustion dragged him all the way into sleep. Nevermind the cold.

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**/DIES FROM THE OVERWHELMING SATISFACTION OF FINALLY RESOLVING ALL THAT SEXUAL TENSION**

**/comes back to life because there's still several chapters left to write**

**Actually, this is only about half of the whole fic, based on what I've planned. So don't go thinking that the story's nearly over. And this is the part where I thank all of you who have reviewed and followed and favorited the story so far, because you guys are awesome and it feels so good to have so many people who love what I write.**

**And as always, I'd love it if you reviewed and gave me feedback! :D**


	11. Je veux t'embrasser

**School. That's all I'm going to say because it's always my excuse for taking so long. Anyway, things are turning around now, so I hope you guys enjoy the chapter.**

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The first thing he registered was soft, slightly wet pressure on the underside of his jaw and the hand still interlaced with his tightening its grip. Arthur cracked open his eyes to see a very dimly lit room and a grayish ceiling above him—not too far above him, either. It was confusing for hardly even a second before everything from the previous night came back to him, at which he cracked a small smile of content.

And then Arthur felt a second, firm kiss being pressed to his jaw, at which he became slightly more conscious and suddenly registered the biting cold. Forcefully shutting both eyes in unpleasant shock, he let go of Francis's hand and jerked what he could of the thin blanket over himself.

"B-bloody hell, i-it is _freezing_…," he muttered into the bed, which he was now pressing his face into in order to get as much heat as he could. "…How is it that you're so still and calm and—n-not sh-shivering…?"

Arthur's tone of voice in his complaining amused him. It was like a young child's, for that moment, and it made him laugh just a bit.

"Because I am used to zis," he said quietly and somewhat breathily, as he let out a long breath as he shifted to roll onto his side and bring Arthur to his side with him. Pressing their chests together, Francis tightly wrapped his arms around his back as well, all just to try and give him more body heat. As he felt Arthur's arms tighten around his own back and a sigh in his ear, he smiled and rubbed the man's back a little. "I know you are a prince," he whispered into his neck, "and so you're not used to zis cold because you 'ave a castle and all zat…. But zis is what I wake up with every morning. Just wait it out, and you'll get used to it in a few minutes."

Arthur pressed his face into Francis's neck and smiled slightly, though his tone was a bit on the sharp side. Playfully sharp. "I don't need to be coddled; I'm the bloody _Prince of England_…." But he also tightened his grip around Francis's back, so his true feelings were obvious.

"Ze Prince of England 'oo was whinging about 'ow freezing it was," Francis smirked, though rubbing his back some more. He felt Arthur ball up one of his fists and hit him lightly on his own back and let out a small laugh.

Moving a bit away from him, Francis sat up on the bed and pulled Arthur with him, and they both rubbed their eyes and scratched their heads a little before speaking.

"My stomach still feels sticky…," Arthur started, sounding casual as he noticed it, feeling his bare stomach without realizing it at first. "…Oh, that's disgusting. Have you got a rag and some water to clean that off?"

Francis still found it amusing. Although he did agree with what Arthur must have been thinking (which he _was_)—they really should have cleaned it off the evening before, when they'd had the chance to do so without wasting water. Really, it wouldn't have taken all that much effort… but eh, they _had_ been quite… exhausted.

So he nodded and slid out from the thick blanket to get off the low bed and promptly find his trousers—which he wanted to put on not because he was embarrassed of being naked at all, but because it was cold. And, sensing Arthur's impatience, he went over to his small "kitchen" area to grab a scrap of cloth that could almost be called a rag and then dip it in the single bucket's store of water he had in the corner. Instead of handing it to him, though, Francis put the rag on Arthur's stomach to wipe the dried semen off of his stomach himself.

Details aside, it actually felt like a sweet gesture. Arthur felt something tug at his heartstrings but frowned anyway and looked up at Francis to say grumpily, "I can do that, you know." Francis looked back at him and smiled, but didn't say anything even when he was finished with wiping.

As he set the rag aside, he just couldn't help but notice. Arthur, sitting there in his bed, naked but with his lower half covered, his hair messier than ever and his eyebrows just as thick as ever and his usual frown set in place. It was simply too beautiful of a sight to ignore. Especially when Francis couldn't remember ever having a single morning-after like this before.

Arthur felt that he knew what Francis was going to do and decided to just wait as the man put a hand on the bed on the opposite side of him and leaned forward. At the last moment, though, he got too impatient and leaned his head forward a bit himself to meet him in the kiss. It was relatively short, and it was soft. And that was different, but it was nice.

Francis only pulled away far enough to put their foreheads together, and he just stared softly into Arthur's rather close eyes for several seconds while he unconsciously rubbed his hands back and forth across the man's shoulder blades. He half-expected the Prince to say something, but it seemed he was aware of Francis's musing and was going to wait for him to speak. It was funny how something like this could make someone like him suddenly so polite.

"Zis… zis isn't going to be merely a single night between us, is it?" he asked quietly, the soft and weakly desperate look conveyed through his eyes. "Zis wasn't a one-time deal, it—?"

"Of course it bloody wasn't, you absolute _idiot_," Arthur half-growled, for the moment actually angry and sad that Francis would think that and also strangely glad that it had been brought up at all so he could know for sure. Frowning, he reached up to grab the side of Francis's face and grip it in sudden desperation of his own. "I don't want it to be just one night—I…" The thought of going through all of that for just one night was too awful to entertain in his mind for more than a second. "I want it to become more nights. And days…. You don't—?"

"No, no, of course I don't—I want nothing less zan to just leave it at last night…. I want more days and nights as well." In his relief, Francis was breathing heavily and smiling with those breaths and even letting out a few relieved laughs. He fondly moved his right hand up to Arthur's face and then into his hair. "So we are… lovers."

"_Lovers_…," Arthur repeated softly, really liking the sound of it when he or Francis said it. He liked the meaning that it held for them and how it was really the only thing that could fit them. And he liked the basis of what it would mean to anyone else in spite of his desire to make sure no one else found out—that this was _against _his future marriage and against his father. They were essentially going against the King's orders by being together, and that felt good. Almost as though he didn't even care about having to get married anymore.

Of course, he would have liked it even without those factors.

Feeling another tug in his chest, Arthur moved his head forward a little quicker than he meant to and pressed multiple kisses to Francis's lips, none of them lasting more than two seconds and all in quick succession. He hesitated on the last one and let their breaths mingle a bit before just slightly brushing his lips once more against his, still tentatively, and pulling back. It occurred to him that he needed to learn how to initiate kisses properly.

"You know…," he started to say quietly as the thought occurred to him, still holding Francis's face, "your accent got a lot more English when you were calling out my name last night…." It was a bit awkward for him to say something like that out loud, especially considering how, as a Prince, he knew what sort of things he wasn't supposed to say—but it somehow didn't matter to him so much when it was just him and Francis.

"Hn… and your accent got much more French…," Francis said, a bit of a laugh coming out. It was true, though, as far as he could remember. And he could remember everything. It still amazed him that he had finally done this with Arthur…. He pressed their foreheads together again and gazed into his lover's eyes, loving the little crinkle of his brow when he frowned from being told that he'd sounded French. "You got a bit of French practice too, so I would 'ave called it a successful evening on all accounts. Now… it's cold. You should get dressed."

With that and a smile, Francis put a hand on Arthur's chest and unceremoniously pushed him back down onto the bed. He chuckled a bit as he quickly stood back up to avoid getting hit and also to grab his spare tunic from the wall on the other side of the house. He went to pick up the one he'd worn yesterday and hung it up on the wall so he would remember to wash it later.

Arthur scowled, but he found himself a little too preoccupied with watching Francis go about what seemed to be his morning routine with interest to say or do anything at first.

"How's pushing me down supposed to help me dress myself…," he grumbled, annoyed, as he pushed himself up again and then slid off the bed. Still looking grumpy, he found his braies and trousers on the dirt floor and brushed them off before putting them on. He was reluctant to wear the same set of unwashed clothes that he'd worn the day before, as he couldn't remember ever doing that (he was the _Princ_e, for God's sakes), but he supposed he would be doing that anyway even if he'd stayed in the forest all night. The only difference was that he would never have taken his clothes off in the first place.

Which was why he was glad he hadn't done that.

Once he had his own clothes on, Francis stood by to watch Arthur dress himself. It was amusing how the Prince was still so self-conscious about his naked body even after they'd spent the night together. And cute. It was very cute.

"You just going to stare at me while I put my clothes on?" Arthur snapped as he did the buckles on the belt that went around the waist of his tunic, though unsure whether or not he was actually annoyed.

"Why wouldn't I, now zat I 'ave ze chance?" said Francis, staring fondly at him.

"Because it makes you a pervert," Arthur said dully. But he smiled to himself anyway.

When he was finished, he realized that there didn't seem to be anything left for them to do but leave to the castle. And he suddenly really didn't want to do that.

"Er—when do you normally… leave your house to start walking to the castle?" he asked slowly, wanting to know so that he could put it off as long as possible.

"Not too long from now. Why—?—'old on, I don't tsink you ever told me why you left ze castle last night in the first place…." Francis's voice got quieter and softer, and he moved from where he was standing to take a couple small steps toward Arthur. "Or were you really coming because you missed me zat much?"

There wasn't a smug laugh in that question—honestly, Francis would have been surprised if the reason was an entirely sentimental one.

"My father and I got into a fight," Arthur told him after a second, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, not really looking at Francis. He'd known he would have to tell this to him at some point, and he didn't want to have to look at his eyes while he did it. "It was about the marriage. Ev—everything worked out… and—well, I'm supposed to wait until I turn eighteen, and then we're to be married. The princess"—he didn't want to call her by her name, not while in this mood—"is going to stay at the castle for a month beforehand. I told my father that I still refused to get married, and we started yelling at each other. And I… well, I didn't want to see him anymore and admittedly I wanted to see _you_ very badly, so I barged straight out the front of the castle. I don't think he'll be happy to see me, although I'm sure he must be expecting me to return…."

Francis was silent for a few seconds, just thinking about how much he didn't want Arthur to be betrothed to this woman—or any woman, really, and how concerned he was for what the King might do or say later.

"When do you turn eighteen?" was the first and really the only thing he thought to ask.

"Next year, in May." Arthur swallowed and looked up at him. "It's not for a while. But—I don't know what we're going to do when May comes…." The thought of it was a scary one, and one he dreaded. He didn't want to think about it.

"We can still be lovers." Francis kept his gaze on Arthur's sad expression and continued to walk toward him until he was directly at his side (which, of course, didn't take long). "No one in ze royal family has to know. It's not zair business."

"We'll need to be careful. We both know what would happen to us—what would happen to _you_, especially…." Arthur swallowed again, hating the thought and wishing he hadn't said that and made himself think about it. "I believe my father already suspects something of this nature, anyway. He'll be suspicious when we get back to the castle together…. We'll have to tell him that we met each other on the path and walked the rest of the way there."

Francis nodded, though he wished they didn't have to keep this secret. There was always a sort of thrill to secret affairs and rendezvous and whatnot… but that was mostly in his younger days, back when he would have a secret lover for a single night or perhaps a week or a month. The last secret lover he'd had that had lasted even a month had resulted in him being kicked out of France. He felt like the same circumstances were happening all over again… and yet that didn't deter him from wanting this with Arthur. It wasn't his fault he'd been thrown into the situation of being his French tutor.

Then again, it had more accurately been his failure to keep the relationship a secret that had had him kicked out of France. He hoped to God that he could do better this time.

"Arthur, I want to give you sometsing," he said, and it felt for a second as though someone else had said it, not him, as the words came to mind just as they left his lips. Arthur looked up at him in curiosity and slight confusion, relaxing a bit at the softness in Francis's words.

No more than a second later, Francis was walking over to his bed and crouching down to get a small bag from underneath it. In silence, he undid the drawstring and rummaged through it for a second before pulling out something small and brass-colored, and then going back over to a still-curious Arthur.

"I want you to 'ave zis," Francis told him, holding out the small object in his hand. "It's… it was my mozzer's ring. She gave it to me before I left France. It bears my family's symbol, and… it's a part of me, really. I want you to wear it as a part of me."

The ring in his hand glimmered a bit in the dusty sunlight, but Arthur didn't make a move to take it. He could only look down at it in awe for a couple seconds before looking back up.

"But… _how _could you wish to give something like that to me, when it seems to be all you have left of a mother you may never see again?" Arthur honestly couldn't fathom what was going on in Francis's mind with this. The thought of it was enough to squeeze _hard _at his heart and render him legally dead for a few seconds, but it seemed utterly stupid. How could Francis be willing to give _that_ much to him? "I—I can't take it. I'm not taking it. That's yours."

"_Oui_, I may never see my mozzer again, but zat is ze past now." Francis locked eyes with him in such a way that Arthur found it physically impossible to let go. "_You_ are what I 'ave now, and if you're ever away from me for too long or if sometsing 'appens and you can never see me again… I want you to 'ave zis. So you can remember, and so I'll be with you anyway."

He could still see the stubbornness in Arthur's face, and he could tell it wasn't truly from him not wanting to have a piece of Francis always with him, so he reached down and grabbed Arthur's left hand—which, unsurprisingly, didn't resist—in order to put the ring on him himself.

"And since zair isn't any way out of you marrying zat woman…," he continued quietly while he worked the ring onto Arthur's middle finger and straightened it, "…I want you to promise yourself to me first."

As reluctant as he still couldn't help but be, Arthur looked down at the ring on his finger with a calm, newly fond sort of feeling. He knew it would be more important to him than the wedding ring he was to don in several months or anything else he would ever wear or own.

"As long as you've promised yourself to me," he said, looking back up once again.

"I did zat a long time ago."

There was a pause and a look from Arthur and another kiss shared between them, and it wasn't as brief as the last one, but it also wasn't too long. It was a promise, and it was followed by Arthur suggesting that they leave but then realizing that the other peasants were going to see him leaving Francis's house, and then Francis assuring him that he didn't need to be so afraid but that he could leave first and make sure no one saw the Prince leave directly. And, of course Arthur hitting him and arguing that he wasn't afraid, but just _not an idiot_.

And frankly, Francis secretly agreed that it truly would have been a stupid move to risk letting gossip start among the peasants. Although he didn't mention the likelihood that a couple of those who lived nearby had probably heard something last night, as he really didn't want to start that fire.

Once they were out of the main town and starting up the path that led to the castle, they could be more lenient. It wasn't as though teasing and flirtatious behavior was out of the question, as plenty of the peasants had already seen them at it anyway, but they'd just had to remember not to touch. Francis especially.

And when they made it to the castle, they were greeted with the sight of the royal guards clearly finding it difficult to hide their thoughts for once. Arthur didn't have to look hard to see the questioning look passed between them—he wasn't trying to look hard, anyway, as he wanted to avoid looking at them.

When they entered the dining hall, though, they didn't find what they would normally expect—the King wasn't to be seen. Arthur's mother and brother were at the end of the table, though, and they looked up to acknowledge him as he walked in.

"Good morning, Arthur, Francis," his mother said politely as they sat down—but nothing else. Peter gave him a brief glare, but nothing more. It seemed that no one was going to mention his father's absence or anything that had happened the night before. He was glad for that.

Breakfast was strangely silent, but there wasn't any way to tell whether it was uncomfortable silence or not. Neither Arthur nor Francis was really sure. But it felt weird, not knowing why his father was gone. Had he left on another trip?—Or was this something he should worry about, because of some ulterior motives? The Prince found himself gradually more and more worried about what the repercussions from having talked like that to his father and then walked straight out of the castle would be, up until he decided he was finished with breakfast and got up with Francis.

"Um—Mother, what… where _is_ Father?" he decided to ask on a split-second decision just after he excused himself, unable to resist the urge. He simply needed to know, just in case it would potentially be bad for him.

"He's out on a hunt with the knights, dear. He left this morning."

_So he's blowing off steam,_ Arthur realized. _From all the anger he has toward me._ That made more sense, and he supposed it was something he didn't need to dwell on. His father normally took him when he did those hunts, though, so it said something in that he'd left without him. Which seemed to be that his father no longer truly cared about Arthur growing up to be King. _Hm. I'll have to stay out of the forest until he returns._

He didn't tell any of this to Francis as they made their way up the stairs to his chambers, though the man did comment on it. Arthur simply didn't think all that was necessary to mention. Besides—why elaborate on an occurrence as nice as his damned father being out of the castle at least for the afternoon?

To neither of their surprises, the morning proceeded like a normal lesson, not counting the fact that certain gestures were more obvious and actually on purpose now. The Prince still needed to learn French, after all, and Francis was still teaching him. And there were still just as many teasing remarks in between.

"_Non_, you can't use zat word like zat," Francis was saying in the most purposefully condescending tone he could muster, pointing to the sentence Arthur had written. "It works differently in ze French language—it… it doesn't mean ze same tsing, really. See, ze English 'ave borrowed too many words from my language and dumbed zem down—which is why we French will always 'ave ze more elegant language, but—"

"Oh, you talk like you invented the language yourself, you _arse_…. And don't act like I should know these damn things by myself—that's the reason you're teaching me in the first place!"

"So you admit we 'ave a more elegant language, zough?"

Arthur scowled at the leer and smug smile Francis was giving him and paused for a second. "Depends on what you're using it for. If you're in such a situation that you want to be much more complicated than you need to, then—"

"Just as I said before, English is dumbed down—and you _admit_ it now—!"

"I—admitted—_nothing_! English is _practical_, and French is only second in being practical because I need to be able to talk to the idiots who speak it…. I use the same word in English if I'm saying '_Kiss _me,' or 'Give me a_ kiss,_' or 'I'm going to_ kiss _you….'"

Arthur gripped the back of Francis's chair as he leaned forward to where Francis's head was slightly tilted over the desk along with the rest of his upper body. Francis watched him as he spoke and as his smirk grew wider, but he leaned his own head back and away from the Prince's face.

"What are you doing, you prat?" he nearly growled—and for a split second, that old fear was back—the fear of being rejected and that he was the only one who actually held feelings of that nature. But he quickly realized that Francis was smirking and doing something entirely different than rejecting him.

"Well, what are _you_ doing?" he said, feigning ignorance.

"Trying to bloody kiss you, if I haven't made that obvious…." Arthur's upper lip curled into a half-smirk, half-scowl, and he used the hand not touching the chair to grab the collar Francis's tunic. He tried to pull him in, but in spite of the easy strength, Francis was able to keep his face just far enough away. "I want a kiss."

"Not until you say it in French."

Oh, that was sneaky and manipulative. And also a way for Arthur to learn, but mostly just sneaky. He considered it stubbornly for a couple seconds before deciding that he just really wanted a kiss right now and searching his mind quickly for the right words.

"…Fine. _Je veux t'embrasser, Francis_." With that he pulled on the collar of Francis's tunic again, but Francis just moved his head back again and let out a laugh.

"Say it again, but actually do ze accent right," he advised with another laugh—but as he did, Arthur was already unwittingly leaning forward too far and making Francis's chair lose balance, and within seconds they were both toppling to the floor, Francis still in his chair and Arthur falling straight out of his but having his stomach hit the end of the arm of the chair on the way down.

Francis gave a small yelp of surprise and an "_Umpf_" when he landed—though that could hardly be heard over the crack that the chair made. They both heard it, and they were both simultaneously aware that they had broken the chair. Well, Arthur had broken it.

The uneven wood was rather uncomfortable to lie on, but Francis didn't immediately get up in favor of staying on the floor and looking up at the man who had fallen on top of him. For a few seconds they just stared at each other, but then they couldn't help but break out into breathy laughter from how ridiculous that was.

The ridiculousness of the situation didn't stop Arthur from leaning down and saying "_Je veux t'embrasser,_" again, though, but this time with an actual attempt on the accent—and he really could do it well, now, if he wanted to. Francis really had no choice but to let Arthur kiss him this time, but of course he wanted to. And he didn't care about the chair underneath him.

Later, the King temporarily turned back into an entirely normal father in his fit of frustration about how Arthur needed to stop fighting with his tutor if it meant he was going to be breaking perfectly good things now.

* * *

**Just so you know, the bit of French in there means "I want to kiss you." **

**And I hope you all liked the morning after. I'm really anxious to get the rest of the story down. Oh - and once again, I was somewhat vague about Francis's background, but at the same time I added more things... So continue to feel free to interpret that however you like. Yep. **

**Also, 50 REVIEWS NOW GUYS. WE DID IT. WE CLIMBED THIS WHOLE MOUNTAIN. Plus, 57 followers OMG. I AM SERIOUSLY HAPPY RIGHT NOW. **

**You know what would make this even better? If anyone was willing to make a fanart that I could use as a cover art for this story. I do already have a cover art thing that I made myself, but it sucks. And it would just feel really awesome if anyone wanted to draw stuff for something that I made... So if any of you have a lot of artistic talent, you're extremely welcome to draw stuff for this fic. Please. **

**It would also be cool if you guys added more reviews. Don't just stop at 50, guys! THE SKY IS _NOT_ THE LIMIT. IN FACT I'M NOT EVEN SURE IF WE'VE HIT THE SKY YET. **


	12. I want you to myself

**Boom. Kind of early this time. Well, earlier updates than the last two weeks. ALSO, you might notice that the story has a new cover, which is thanks to _hannica7_ being amazing and drawing art for me. Thanks so much for all the reviews and follows so far, guys, and I hope you like the chapter!**

* * *

The chair that Arthur and Francis had broken turned out too splintered for the castle servants to repair, so they ended up replacing it. And the King didn't even bother trying for any of the workers in town because it would have been embarrassing to resort to asking for a peasant's help because his own servants couldn't mend a bloody chair.

Meanwhile, it hadn't been embarrassing at all for him to get a peasant's help in order to get his son knowledgeable in French. Arthur tried not to think about that. (He failed, though, as it had occurred to him while he was sitting as his desk alone and he unwittingly made nail marks into the edge of the wood in his brief anger. He later figured that he ought to either trim his nails soon or get back into the habit of biting them so they would get shorter.)

As for the Prince and his French tutor, well… the week progressed as usual. On the surface, at least. Beneath the surface, they were tip-toeing on ice that turned out to be much thicker than it seemed because they were new to this and wanted to make sure they knew what was acceptable and what wasn't. Francis might have possibly been one of the world's greatest lovers in terms of experience and skill and passion, but he was still new to the relationship. Three months of growing affections for Arthur that he'd had to hide to some extent and which he'd feared, at times, were unreciprocated, and suddenly _this_.

He'd already known it wouldn't be like any relationship he'd had in a long time. While he was always very passionate about his lovers, there'd always been the bit of reason in the back of his mind telling him that it wasn't going to last forever or even very long at all, and he'd been okay with that. Now he wasn't. And he didn't need to, anyway, because that bit of reason wasn't there. There was an entirely different bit of reason, and it was that he'd actually have to focus more on thoughts than feelings if he didn't want this to end badly. That, he was okay with. Because he didn't want to risk anything.

Neither of them did. And that was the other reason why they tread so lightly. Arthur, of course, was experiencing everything for the first time. A long kiss and a night of making love had brought him headfirst into this, and though he'd been to the most intimate point with Francis already, he was still disoriented. Of course he'd wanted this for a long time, but it was only now that he was seeing all that he'd wanted. He liked it. He just didn't like that it came at the price of making sure no one could possibly suspect them.

But really, that had been the one thing he'd been sure of every time thoughts of something like this with Francis had crossed his mind beforehand. As someone who would later dedicate much of his life to strategy (because ruling a country, in all aspects of it, was _strategy_), he'd already been prepared for this.

_That_ was what Arthur was leading in. Francis was the one leading in most of the touches and kisses, most of the brief words exchanged before departing. It was a double-edged sword that they had to grapple for in the level that their dance had come to, now that they were no longer butting antlers but instead occasionally smacking each other's necks with the side of their antlers and otherwise nuzzling it. It was a slow dance, now. A continuous slow dance that was almost too slow for its own good. And they were both leading it.

The Sunday following Arthur's return from Wales was like any other Sunday, and they were never more grateful that those days existed. After Mass (which made both of them feel strangely more uncomfortable, now, but they could still brave it), Arthur could still leave to the town and then walk back with Francis, and no one would see it as abnormal. And that was an important part of this—continuing to act completely normal. Well, normal for _him_, anyway.

But it seemed to them that Sundays would be even more of _their_ day now, as it was the day that Arthur could take Francis to the lakeside and the forest, where they could be alone and separate from any possible chance of being seen. He could catch up with how his faerie friends had been, and they could just be alone together. When Francis very clearly conveyed that he wanted to lie down and kiss him, however, he still looked around to make sure they were alone first.

With being lovers came paranoia, it seemed. But there was no doubt that it was worth it.

Nothing even close to what they did _that_ night had occurred since then, however. That was impossible for them. In making sure that they weren't caught, kisses and touches had to be restricted to when they were completely alone. There wasn't much time for it when lessons were supposed to be taking place, either. It wasn't as though the fleeting touches and trails of lips weren't enough for them in the sense that they couldn't stand it, but the both of them still very much wanted to. …That was part of being secret lovers, they supposed. Never knowing when you might find an opportunity for more than brief touches.

Within the next few days, though, the weather started to change considerably, and it was obvious that this was going to affect things even before Arthur realized exactly why. It was the beginning of December, and this seemed to be the transitioning week into the cold season. As if it weren't already cold…. But—of course, more rain was expected to come. And more rain was coming. The knights were already getting word of a few peasants getting sick. A small child was close to death with the sickness she'd attracted already, even after the King had let the royal physician try to help her. That sort of thing was terribly common, but it still made Arthur paranoid.

By the end of the week, the idea had struck Arthur to willingly, for once, venture out of his chambers and go to his father's. And he didn't waste any time once he was inside.

"Father, as you know, it is very nearly winter—"

"Yes, I am aware of the seasons' change," the King snapped—not so much irritably as looking pleased with himself for saying something so cleverly condescending. Arthur didn't give him the satisfaction of taking any sort of pause to glare at him, though.

"It's nearly winter," he repeated, more firmly and standing his ground—standing the way that would grant him _respect_ as the future King. "It's cold. I'm sure a good number of the peasants will die before the winter is up. So I am here to request that you allow Francis residence in the castle, in his own chambers." At his father's skeptical (or was that… _amused_?) raise of an eyebrow, he hastened to explain—"He's the only one within reasonable distance of the castle who's capable of teaching me French, and what use to me if he's ill or dead?"

Arthur didn't think saying those words would hurt him so much. Both while _and_ after he said them. Because he didn't mean them—dear _God_ he didn't mean them…. But he made sure not to let his face falter and to say it with as much contempt as possible to make it convincing. Couldn't have his father getting suspicious and rejecting his request, could he?

"That _is_ a valid point, for once," the King said dryly, as though such a topic wasn't quite worth his time. "You're being responsible. That is… good. Very well then. You may tell the servants to prepare a room and inform your tutor that he's moved for the winter. And if he needs help getting his things, I trust you can supply that help on your own."

The silence that followed was the sort that established an end to the conversation, and Arthur gave a sharp (and slightly frustrated, considering how his father was still being as selfish as possible with his compliance) nod before heading to the door. However, before he could reach it—

"How far _have_ you gotten in your lessons, pray tell, Son? I would like to know."

He didn't turn back around to speak, but simply thought for a moment and said, "_Je ne suis pas votre fils_."

A single second of silence passed, and the King said calmly, "Rather well, then."

Arthur gave another nod, this one a roundabout thank-you, and left the office without another word.

* * *

"But… what about ze ozzer peasants? I don't cook merely for money and trade, but also because ze people around me need ze 'elp, and I—"

"Are they worth your life and your health, Francis?" Arthur pressed, slightly exasperated. Really, he hadn't expected to be met with any protests on Francis's part. He was surprised that they weren't already headed back up to the castle. And he was also surprised that Francis could actually have such selfless intentions.

"No, but some of zem rely on me," he said stubbornly, frowning slightly. Of course Francis wanted to stay in the castle, but he didn't want any of the people he might have called a friend to die. As if he could really stop it with a jar of jam or a bit of bread. "I don't want zem to die."

"I don't want _you_ to die." Arthur's voice got quieter, and his brow furrowed more deeply, like he was getting angry. Except it was something entirely different. And Francis didn't seem to have anything to add, so he leaned slightly closer and went on, still quiet, "You'll be in the warmest place possible for several miles. You'll… _you'll be in a room adjacent to mine_. Is that not enough?"

Francis's eyelids lowered, and his heartbeat slowed. He suddenly wanted very badly to take Arthur's face in his hands and kiss him—for several reasons, none of which he could accurately name—but he couldn't, and the best he could do was convey everything though a look.

"It's more zan enough. But… if I'm to be staying in ze castle, I won't need to make a continuous living tsroughout ze winter or even make my own food at all. So I suppose I can afford to give away a lot of what I 'ave 'ere to zose 'oo need it. Just… allow me time to do zat, and zen I'll come to ze castle. Unless you'd like to 'elp…?"

It wasn't a serious question; Francis made that pretty clear with a smirk on his face that normally would have made Arthur hit him, but the Prince surprisingly considered it for a second or so before agreeing with a serious nod and immediately starting toward the door to his house.

"Yes, I'll help with that. And then you can get whatever personal things you have and we can return to the castle."

He said it so bluntly that Francis couldn't help but stand in plain shock for several seconds, and it was only upon looking at him and noticing the man's look that Arthur realized. Immediately, he realized what the main issue was—Francis must not have thought this could be deemed normal behavior or something they could get away with without suspicion. So he stopped and said,

"It wouldn't be princely at all of me to leave you on your own rather than escorting you back to what will soon also be your home, and of bloody _course_ I'm not going to make another trip back to the castle and then back here, nor am I going to wait next to your hovel for the next hour. So… come on, I'm not going to stand here forever; let's distribute these. It'll… it'll be an early Christmas gift for them."

His voice had gotten smaller near the end, if only for slight embarrassment. While part of a prince's duty was to help his people, Arthur had never really been that kind of prince—_at all_—and he didn't want to suddenly start now. It was his reputation (of someone who spent so much time alone that he practically _had_ no reputation) at stake, but it was Francis whom he was willing to give it up for.

Francis nodded and entered his house with a pleasant feeling that seemed to be halfway in between soft amusement and eagerness for… everything, and Arthur was not yet gathering jars but instead standing at the wall and waiting for him. He'd been expecting that, really—just as he'd expected Arthur's words of "It's… it's that I want you to myself as soon as possible, too."

* * *

The only thing Francis took with him when he officially left his home in the village for the winter (he supposed so, anyway) was the single bag of personal things he'd had ever since he'd originally left France. Everything else within the small boundaries of those stone walls was completely impractical to have now that he would be living—which included _sleeping_ now, as it wasn't just staying there for a couple hours to teach—where everything was vastly better.

Well, he also took his two spare tunics. But he knew, of course, that Arthur was going to insist that he be given more suitable clothes (for warmth and comfort, not necessarily just nobility standard). Mainly because Arthur had told him so as-a-matter-of-factly on the way there. And then because he saw the clothes himself in the wardrobe later on, when he was shown his new chambers.

This, really, was new for him. New according to what he'd been doing for the past five years, anyway. Francis hadn't slept in a bed like that for a long time.

Sleeping wasn't the sole use of that bed for the first night that he stayed there, though.

It seemed to take forever, as time suddenly wanted to move slower than molasses for them once Francis arrived at the castle. The time in between then and suppertime was horribly long, and then dinner itself was excruciating despite lasting, in actuality, merely half of an hour. And still, they couldn't risk doing more than passing a bit of conversation and an extra French lesson until it reached the time that the majority of those in the castle had retired to their beds—except the guards, of course. It went without saying that they needed to wait until everyone was asleep.

They were both already in Francis's chambers, and they could easily tell the time both by the darkness in the window and the height of the candle they had lit. And they _had_ been talking, but now Arthur just felt awkward.

"…How do we go about this, the second time?" he asked quietly, breaking the awful monotony of the conversation. Their first time had stemmed directly off important words and sudden instincts; that had been easy. And now he didn't know.

"It's really… very simple." Francis's voice was just as soft and quiet as he stood up and gently urged Arthur up as well, then pulled him over and onto the bed with him, straight into his lips and a well-met kiss.

* * *

It took a lot of effort, much of which was rather frustrating, to try not to risk anything and let their secret be known. Even the slight brush of hands in the middle of the corridor had to be avoided, and they both hated that.

But over the next few weeks, they became more and more like conventional lovers. Still not anything normal, with how they would more often tease each other—worse than gently—than say completely charming things (though the teasing was, in actuality, very charming) or being sweet—or with how they were both men, but at least they had more options now.

Every day, as usual, Francis would spend two hours in Arthur's room to teach him French. Nothing changed there except Arthur's steadily growing skills in speaking and writing French. With the arrangement of Francis living at the castle now, however, they weren't sure how much time they could get away with spending together and not being possibly suspicious to anyone. They ended up deciding that the Prince wouldn't stay around Francis if he truly had something important to be doing. It seemed to be working so far.

And then many of their nights, once everyone else had gone to bed, were filled with heavy breathing and the mingling of breaths and the sliding of their bodies together—gradually able to get faster and harder and eventually allow Arthur to be dominating—and calling out each other's names until they at last fell to pieces in each other's arms and caught their breath before they slept. They didn't try to muffle the moans (or occasionally screams), but at the same time they made an effort not to be very loud. The doors were rather thick, but sound could always travel. And that would have been the worst possible scenario.

In the morning, Francis would wake up very early on instinct and then wake up Arthur and tell him that one of them had to go back to their own bed. Servants came to their rooms in the mornings, after all, and that was too much of a risk.

And then some nights, it was something else. They would stay up talking, or they might actually practice French by talking back and forth and translating things.

One night, Arthur left his chambers in the middle of the night and entered Francis's while the man was still sleeping, and then slipped into the bed behind him and wrapped his arm around Francis's middle while he pressed himself into his warm back. When Francis drowsily (and yet still somehow teasingly) asked him if he really had that big of an urge right now, he mumbled into his neck,

"No, jus' needed t' sleep with you."

Arthur could sense Francis's lips stretch into a sleepy smile as he pulled the Prince's arm more tightly over him and kept his hand over his.

* * *

On Christmas Day, a few Lords and Ladies (most of whom were related to or good friends of the King) had ridden in from all directions to celebrate with the King and the rest of the royal family. What would have been a fun event for anyone else was hell for Arthur, and for more reasons than usual this year.

Because while Francis lived there and was treated as a guest on all other accounts, the visiting family didn't show the slightest bit of respect for him—which led to the King all but forcing Francis to stay away from everyone else for the day. So he did. And Arthur went with him.

It wasn't exactly uncommon for Arthur to avoid spending even Christmas in the castle, so this wasn't at all suspicious. Besides—he didn't think he could consider it a good Christmas unless he spent a fair amount of time with the person he wanted to. He didn't even have to tell Francis to put on an extra layer of clothes and furs, as he knew what they were doing and did so anyway.

A good fifteen minutes or so of trudging through melting snow led them to their usual lake, though it was mostly frozen over at the moment. "_Mostly_" because of all the holes the naiads had made to stick their heads through.

"We'll need to get back near a fire soon enough," Francis commented, watching his breath come out as frost in the air.

"Yes, I know. I just thought… we could stay out here for a bit. I don't know if the fairies will come in this weather."

"If zey did, could zey warm us up…?"

"Don't be such an idiot—they would use up too much of their power doing that…."

The cold became numbing within about twenty minutes, but Arthur and Francis became nearly oblivious to it in the midst of their talking about trivial things and sitting together, leaning on each other.

"You know… zis is ze first time I've spent an 'oliday with someone I love," Francis said quietly into Arthur's hair, not really thinking about what he was saying at first. But then, with Arthur's soft grunt of him being about to say something, he realized all that he'd neglected explaining for so long. So he continued without letting the Prince speak, and his voice became quieter as he did, almost like he was telling a secret. Which he really was.

"Actually, Arthur… you need to know about zat. You need to know about everytsing. I'm—I'm so sorry for keeping it from you for so long, I—"

"Wait—so you're actually going to tell me all of that about France?" Arthur interjected, having realized what Francis meant. He jerked his head out of the space between Francis's neck and shoulder that he'd had it in and over to look at him with a look that said _Bloody hell, finally…._

"Yes. Now shut up so I can tell it." Francis looked serious for one second before laughing slightly. And then sighing and rubbing his arms together. "…I was born into a noble family in France," he started slowly and evenly, and Arthur turned to look at him with a softly—yet extremely—curious expression, furrowing his eyebrows and widening his eyes ever so slightly. Francis caught his gaze for a moment before continuing: "My fazzer was a knight, and 'e was close friends with ze King. 'E died when I was young, but our family already knew ze King so well zat we 'ad a good and easy life. Ze royal chefs provided our food, and I prepared it most of ze time.

"And later, one year… ze King of Spain visited to make negotiations. Zey were for future marriage, as far as I could tell—'e brought 'is son, Antonio. And ze King of France 'ad no sons, only a daughter…." Francis paused to swallow, as he felt old feelings rising up in his chest. "I spent much of my time in ze castle, so I and my mozzer and sister were introduced to zem soon after zey arrived. Zey 'ad to stay a while, so Antonio wanted to find sometsing to do during ze time, and… we became friends. I—I won't force ze details on you, but we also… became lovers. 'E was my best friend and ze first person I ever really loved—but…." Francis trailed off, momentarily not being able to say it. He felt Arthur's hands tighten on his back and arm. "A month. We were lovers for a mere month before we were caught…. 'Is fazzer found us togezzer and was furious.

"If I was anyone else, I would 'ave been executed without a doubt. Ze King of Spain was angry and I 'ad committed a supposed crime against ze church…. But my mozzer was still good friends with ze King of France, and she was 'eartbroken enough with me 'aving done such a tsing. So I was told I could leave France and forever remain in exile. …And you know ze rest."

Silence. That was all there was for several seconds. Arthur was still gripping harder onto Francis's clothes, just taking it all in. To be quite honest, he couldn't be surprised at any of that story. Francis being a former noble even made a lot of sense, considering how he acted.

But there was jealousy there, too. Both of them were sure it was there. Arthur felt his chest burn (in a bad way) at the thought of Antonio… but he wasn't angry. And he held it back in his silence.

"Looks like you haven't changed, have you?" he finally said, letting out a nearly mirthless laugh. It wasn't bitter, but just… ironic. "You definitely have a knack for attracting princes, don't you." That was much more of a statement than a question.

He chuckled a bit, and Francis chuckled along with him. Not quite sure if everything was okay yet, though, he shifted his body so that he could let Arthur lean on him more and also wrap his arms partially around him. And he didn't know what to say for now, so he stayed silent.

Arthur couldn't handle the silence anymore. There were questions nagging at his heart now, and he very nearly had to choke them out. "…Do you still—_love_ Antonio? Even after five years?"

Francis blinked, realizing how worried Arthur sounded and how the man didn't want to look at him when he said that. So he put a hand on the side of his face and pulled it up to him almost forcibly, and just looked at him seriously. "I will never forget 'im, but… _I've moved on, Arthur_."

He made sure to look the Prince directly in the eyes when he said that—he simply needed to make sure that Arthur _knew_. Knew that there were no other feelings clouding those for _him_, and that his promise had been a real one, and especially that—

"If not for 'im, I would never 'ave met you. And I am grateful for zat."

"I'm grateful for that, too. I… I hope Antonio's okay, wherever he is."

"…So do I. I'll bet 'e's found someone else as well. And I 'ope 'e doesn't let it get ruined zis time."

The sudden possibility of such a thing happening with the two of them made Arthur feel like a cold hand was squeezing his heart. He couldn't breathe for a second.

"It… it will _not_ be ruined," he promised at once, and it was obvious he wasn't talking about Antonio. "I will make sure of that."

Francis smiled fondly and slowly, then gave a small nod. And he suddenly felt all the growing numbness of his body (and stinging cold) that he hadn't registered before.

"We should make our way back up to ze castle, lest we both freeze to death out 'ere…."

As much as his body was telling him to go straight back to a source of warmth, Arthur hesitated to stand up. And he came to a decision rather quickly—"Let's freeze together for one more minute."

Without much more warning than the look he'd given him, Arthur pushed himself up far enough to practically tackle Francis into the snow, which made a convenient, though cold, place for him to lie while the Prince pressed two long and firm kisses to his mouth.

* * *

**I hope that scene didn't seem too short or anything... but now you know Francis's backstory. And I'm sorry if anyone who's reading this really hates Frain... To be honest, I only see them as a brotp and don't really ship them at all, but I kind of can if it's a human AU, and as long as it's only a past thing that isn't constantly re-established as having been pre-canon. Antonio was his childhood, Arthur is his now. **

**Anyway, it would be great if you left a review, as always, and thanks to everyone who already has! ^_^**


	13. Stop it

**Sorry this chapter took 2 weeks instead of one - once again, school. _Sigh._ But anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter, because I really enjoyed writing it.**

* * *

"What are you doing in here?"

"…I might ask the same of you, Jerk."

Arthur frowned—not in any sort of hurt or anger, but more in slight annoyance and in that he almost wished his younger brother would find something better to call him. Something that was actually a real insult or a hurtful slur, perhaps. And he found it annoying and not really amusing in any way that the boy seemed to be trying to act intimidating. Because it wasn't working.

Folding his arms, holding his head up higher, straightening his stature, and raising an eyebrow, Arthur stepped farther in than the threshold of the armory with a single, yet long stride.

"Actually—_no_, you shall not, because I'll answer before you can," he said smoothly. "I'm here to find a suitable replacement for the sword I consistently carry around, as it's dulled as of late. And in any case, I am nearly of age and also the future King of England, so I don't think it's your place to ask me what business I have anywhere."

Peter took several seconds to glare at him, but he didn't say anything. And that was strange, as he normally took any chance he got to insult Arthur and there had been a wide space open for him right there. So Arthur frowned more deeply and added, "What _are_ you doing in the armory, then? I thought Father already gave you a sword not very long ago."

He was silent again, but only for a couple seconds before looking down and then up at Arthur once more, and then walking slowly around the tables of weapons and not looking at him. "Just wanted to look at everything," he replied quietly a moment later, and Arthur could hear the hatred for him hidden deep in there. It was the deepest and least obvious he'd ever heard it in his younger brother's voice.

Arthur could also see immediately what the issue was here. Peter was the last child of the family and therefore the one last on the list to become King, if ever. He wasn't going to rule for a long time, and he must have felt angry that someone like Arthur was going to become King instead of him. That realization made Arthur angry.

"Peter, listen—don't underestimate me. I don't care what you think, and that's because you've no idea what really goes on as a soon-to-be King and therefore you don't think anything that's right. If you think you're going to usurp me one day before I die, you're wrong. And I implore you not to waste time with learning sword tricks in order to impress Father because that isn't going to get you anything."

The Prince felt powerful with those words—like he might crush anything or kick down any door. Even if it was only his brother, and a rather small one at that.

"Who said this was to impress anyone?" Peter snapped, his voice getting noticeably more high-pitched in his frustration. As a boy merely twelve years of age, his voice still sounded generally similar to any girl's. "Perhaps I simply wish to have a brief look at some of the weaponry! Don't act like you verily know me, you jerk!"

Peter's frustration seemed to get more childish as he went on, but that was only from the outside—the thing was, Arthur really did know his brother. Because they were just alike, right now. And the slight realization made Arthur even more angry, as he didn't want to believe that he was anything like that brat.

So he frowned, exasperated from the useless arguing, and stepped forward.

"Sure, I don't know you at all, brat," he muttered dully, waving a hand both dismissively and in slight annoyance. When he set it on the table beside them and clutched the edge, Peter just looked down a bit and was silent for a few seconds.

"What's that ring on your finger?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes and sounding half-curious, half-suspicious, like he could actually hear Arthur's heart suddenly drop to his stomach.

_Shite. Hell—bloody—hell—why was I not more careful?_ thought Arthur in brief panic, and all as he put forth a massive effort not to show any of that in his face or in his body movements. It was good he was rather skilled at that sort of thing.

Completely contrasting to what was going on inside his mind (and his stomach, which felt like it was being twisted very uncomfortably at the moment), he glanced down at his hand in feigned momentary confusion-then-calm-realization and said, "Oh, I found it. It was near the forest, so I believe it may have some sort of enchantment or other magical properties. I'll have to wait and see."

At that, Peter was no longer suspicious at all but instead just annoyed at his older brother's eccentricity and apparent delusion that magic and faeries existed. He'd lived with him far too long to _not_ be used to this sort of thing.

"…Right." Peter looked up at him with a condescending expression—one that almost made it seem as though he was concerned for Arthur's sanity. "If you're going to be a freak right now, I'll just go, so. See you. Freak." And he pushed past Arthur (with little effort, as the older Prince moved out of the way quickly) at once, leaving the armory with seemingly as much pride as the boy could muster. As he left, Arthur waited just to see if he might catch a glimpse of maturity in his brother's stride—but once again, everything about him screamed _child_, still.

The door shut, and only then did Arthur allow himself to show the pain on his face. As relieved as he was that he'd been able to get away with that and make sure he wasn't suspected of anything, it hurt him to lie about something that meant so much to him. Without realizing it at first, he grabbed his left hand with his right and started rubbing the bronze band around his middle finger. There was a second of just that, in which he just stood there, and then Arthur kissed the ring, sighed, and went on walking through the armory.

Having been in this part of the castle many times, Arthur didn't get lost on the way to finding the daggers—which was what he'd been looking for. He pulled a few out of their small sheaths, quickly examining the blade and the handle of them before putting it back. Soon, he found one that seemed to be of a good length and blade-size, at which he stuck the dagger into his belt where his sword would go (which he wasn't wearing right now) and tucked his tunic over to hide it. It was small enough that the task was a relatively easy one.

Finished with his business, he wasted no time in heading straight out of the armory and past a pacing Peter without looking at him, past a couple of the castle servants without acknowledging them, and past his mother with a small nod: Time seemed to be cut between every person that he passed so that he made it to his chambers rather quickly.

Except it wasn't his own chambers he was headed to; Arthur briefly stopped at his doorway just in case and checked around a couple times to make sure no one was in or around the corridor, then proceeded to the end of the corridor and opened Francis's door. They had both decided never to knock on each other's doors, as knocking made noise and could thus alert someone to the fact that they were together—and also because there was nothing they could be doing that they wouldn't want the other to see.

When Arthur entered, Francis was sitting at the edge of his bed and tossing an apple up in the air to catch it. It seemed he might also have been talking to himself, and the Prince suddenly felt sorry that the man had to be so bored.

"Arthur—" Francis started to say in greeting, but he was promptly cut off by something long and leather being shoved in front of his face.

"I've decided I want you to have this and keep it," Arthur told him abruptly, feeling slightly awkward about it. Then again, he felt fairly awkward about a lot of things. "I want you to have something better than a simple crossbow for once you have to go move back into that hovel and begin hunting for your food again, and even while you're here… it's simply just… safe. It's safe to have a weapon on you at all times, and my father may not be happy if he sees you with one of our weapons, so it's a small one."

Francis stared at him blankly for a few seconds that seemed to last a while, especially as Arthur had said that all so quickly in his awkwardness and slightly confused him for a second. The Frenchman then smiled in gratitude and slight wonder that he could be so sentimental with the strangest of things, but he still didn't quite know what he was supposed to do somehow. So in the silence, Arthur calmly made to slide the sheathed dagger into Francis's boot, which seemed to be the only place for the man to hide it.

"…Tsank you," Francis said softly as Arthur's hand lingered on his leg. He was happy to know that The Prince cared so much for his safety. They held each other's gaze for a few long moments before Francis stood up, making a point to be slow about it, then lazily put his arms around Arthur's lower back and kiss him firmly on the cheek.

His body became considerably more relaxed at the pressure to his cheek, but Arthur's mind was still dwelling on the fact that Peter had seen the ring—which of course meant that anyone might see it if he wasn't careful. And he was still afraid his younger brother might have actually guessed the true nature of it. It was enough to make him nearly forget he was in Francis's arms (sort of) and not say anything for a full minute until Francis acknowledged it.

"Is… sometsing wrong?"

Francis didn't pull back to look at him, but rather moved his arms up to Arthur's mid-back, held him tighter, and spoke in a slightly less calm tone.

"'S nothing," he mumbled, letting his arms come around his lover's back, so he could kiss him on the cheek as well. He tried not to let his chin rub too much against the other man's stubble.

With the continued silence after that, though, Francis came to a quick conclusion and laughed, this time actually pulling back to hold onto each of Arthur's arms with one hand and look at his face. "Arthur, are you _really_ zis worried about me…?" It was amusing and rather cute of him, to say the least. Francis let out a few more chuckles at the thought, especially as Arthur frowned in annoyance and pushed him onto the bed.

"Oh, shut up. I wouldn't get depressed over such an unlikely event happening to you that I would have to be worried about it…."

At what seemed to be a useless bit of denial, Francis laughed again and pulled Arthur onto the bed with him by wrapping his legs around his knees and tripping him.

* * *

It just seemed amazing to Arthur how long ago his first lesson with Francis had been. It was amazing how one week had turned into two and later, finally, into about sixteen—how bitterness and strong disliking had turned into this. And it especially amazed him how that amount of time really wasn't all that long in the big scheme of things, and yet he felt like he'd known Francis his whole life, now. How could he possibly ever know anyone else?

The weeks of winter went by as well, though. It wasn't very long until the chill in the air began lightening up, the blizzards stopped happening, and the snow started melting. To many in the kingdom (those who had to farm for a living, especially), that was the pre-beginnings of spring and therefore one of the best times of the year, but to Arthur it was the time that marked when his father was likely to kick Francis back out into his own home, back in the village.

Even if his father never suggested it, it would have been suspicious for Francis to remain in the castle and for Arthur not to say anything regarding it. As much as they might have failed at it beforehand, they couldn't allow it to be considerably obvious that they even enjoyed each other's company. And that tactic had been strictly set in place between them after the second time that they'd very nearly been caught (luckily both times by someone who was not his father). Once in the middle of a kiss that Francis had insisted on risking while in the corridors, and once in which the King had been talking to them all, and Arthur's hand had unconsciously gone for Francis's.

So about a week into February, the two of them agreed to just inform the King that Francis was to leave in a couple days in order to resume his usual work and stop being a burden. Arthur's father didn't seem to doubt at all that the man's reasons were genuine, as he'd always looked at Francis and seen an honest, responsible man. More than he would ever say for Arthur himself, and the Prince knew it.

Of course, it was difficult to get used to it. For the past two months, they'd spent no more than an hour or so completely apart, and they'd had the option to sleep in the same bed with each other every night. Obviously they'd known what they would be giving up, but it was still awful.

The first night Francis was back in his own house and his own uncomfortable little peasant's bed, Arthur made it halfway to the door of his chambers before he remembered that his lover was not at the end of the corridor, and therefore he couldn't help him sleep more soundly.

At least with everything back to the way it had been the week before it had become too cold for Francis to live safely out in the village, they still had their lessons and their Sundays together. Their routine progressed as it had beforehand, however strange it felt at first.

Not having Francis in the castle with him was strange, and then going to church without him was strange. But then when Arthur showed up outside of Francis's house the Sunday next with an unwittingly charming smirk and met him inside very quickly for a kiss hello because Francis hadn't seen him since the day before and honestly needed a kiss very much, it didn't feel so weird.

No one paid them any mind as they left the village, as all the peasants had been accustomed to this as well. Even though this hadn't been going on for a while, they still knew. Arthur figured some of them might suspect something, but that was much less disconcerting than his father suspecting them. A peasant could do nothing even if one actually had the stupidity to bring a matter like that to the castle. As widely known as it was that Arthur and the King didn't have the best of relationships, no one would risk saying something bad to the King about his own son—especially not about something that really didn't affect them at all.

So the Prince prefers men to women and may very well be infatuated with a peasant man who teaches him French—like _that_ was going to ruin their crops or destroy their huts.

But of course, they still couldn't do anything that made it terribly obvious until they were out of sight of anyone else. Which meant once they were on the nearly invisible path down the hill to the forest and where the clearing was, at which point they were merely talking as usual, really.

"…A blade to your stubble would do you some good, Francis," Arthur huffed as they walked, his head turned to Francis and his hand feeling all the scratchiness on the man's face. His eyes were somewhat scrutinizing in his frown, as it was more truth than it was teasing.

Francis smirked a little and rubbed his stubble as though fond of it, despite understanding the notion completely. "You want me to shave zis off?—you don't like it?"

"I've already got a bit of a burn mark on my face from where your chin has rubbed against mine," he explained quickly, his face flushing a little as he glanced away. Of course Arthur liked the way it looked on him—but he wasn't going to lose the argument before it even _became_ an argument just because of his stupid feelings. He still wasn't going to let Francis get to him like this.

"'As anyone noticed yet?" he asked quietly, slight worry in his tone.

"If they have, they haven't said anything. But even if we were at no risk of being found out, it does itch—"

Without warning (and without stopping in his stroll), Francis leaned over and took the base of Arthur's jaw in his hands. The Prince stopped short in his exasperated words at the look Francis was giving him, not only because it was completely unprecedented but also because that look never failed to take his breath away. He was at first shocked that his lover wanted this all of a sudden, but then it was a completely different shock when, instead of kissing him, Francis leaned all the way forward and started rubbing his cheek against Arthur's.

"What—?—_Aauughh_—no—you idiot—stop it!" he said insistently, trying to push Francis off him by the shoulders as he purposely did what was going to cause more stubble-burn later. But Francis was about as equally strong as him, and he wasn't putting forth quite as much effort as he could have. As he kept trying to move his lover's arms and face away, he realized that they were standing still now—and that they were in the clearing they'd been headed to.

Francis just kept rubbing his scratchy stubble onto Arthur's face, laughing melodically though not completely sure why it was so funny to him. He supposed he just loved to see Arthur all worked up and frustrated. And for some reason, he loved the physical side to their fighting. Probably because it always made it clear how the Prince didn't want to _really_ hurt him—along with the fact that the man was initiating touches, essentially.

"God bloody dammit, stop—_stop_—damn, shite, do you realize you're making it worse, you idiot, someone is going to notice the burn—FRANCIS!"

The frustration in Arthur's voice was getting worse and worse, and a large part of him really did want Francis to stop because this was pretty stupid considering all they'd done so far to keep their relationship a secret. At his yell, Francis gave a particularly mischievous giggle into his neck and then slid his face over to kiss his lips for several seconds. Because of the way he'd shifted his lips, it was a bit wet and sloppy, but it made Arthur's efforts go weaker all the same.

As he continued to try to push him away, Francis grabbed the hands on his chest and took them in his own, stretching their arms out to the side a little so that Arthur couldn't push or hit him anymore. He ended the kiss with more chuckling and slid his scratchy face across Arthur's cheek again, now rocking their bodies from side to side a bit. Within a few seconds, he was pressing his nose into the skin next to Arthur's ear and almost unwittingly starting to slowly turn them in circles.

"…What are you doing now?" Arthur huffed, frowning—but not even trying to push him away anymore.

"Dancing," said Francis simply, a smile in his voice. He started to guide their steps more consciously, though it was still pretty much just going in a circle.

"We haven't any music." The frown on his face was even more noticeable despite Francis not being able to see it, the annoyance in his voice obvious.

There was silence between them for no more than three seconds before Francis went on a whim and began singing a French song. Arthur was purely mesmerized by it for several seconds before it kicked in and made him flushed in the face and thus frustrated.

"_Oh_ no.… Stop it," he muttered eventually, feeling rather awkward with his completely inexperienced dancing and just plain _frustrated_ with how bloody beautiful Francis's singing voice was. He just wanted the man to stop being so charming. It was embarrassing. And somehow that hurt.

But Francis just raised his voice as he continued to sing, and Arthur could hear the laugh in it, and he felt himself melt a little and move along more easily with Francis's steps. He could pick out a lot of the French words in the song, and it was very obviously some sort of love song. Although it was hard for him to focus on the words when such a voice was singing them.

"Francis, stop—" he started again, but he cut himself off when he noticed a bit of twinkling in the corner of his eye and heard some high-pitched giggling.

He looked over, and it was his faerie friends, as he'd figured. Of course it was them. And their faces were too small and far away to see properly, but he knew they were all grinning and watching with amusement.

"Don't encourage him…," Arthur half-growled, frowning. The faeries giggled harder.

Francis kept on. And Arthur found himself falling in love with him all over again and not minding the dancing so much and, within a minute or so, really just _loving_ this and the fluttery feeling left in his stomach and chest because of it. He told him to stop a couple more times, but they got less insistent. The last one was—

"Stop it—I am the _Prince_, dammit…."

And then a small break in song for a soft "Zat's never stopped me before…."

When he was near finished with the song, Francis pulled back just enough to see Arthur's face to smile softly at him and dipped him back—

And promptly dropped—technically pushed—him straight into the lake, forcing a yelp out of him and letting out a laugh himself as he stepped back.

Arthur immediately started panicking and suddenly let go of all self-awareness as he thrashed and shouted in the water and didn't care how ridiculous or shameful it might have looked. He was just frightened to death, and he couldn't help it.

"_Fuck_—I CAN'T—SWIM—_FRANCIS_—!"

It wasn't as though Arthur was in any actual danger, as the water was definitely not deep enough for him to drown, but Francis quickly realized the terror and panic in the Prince's voice and went in to pick him up and pull him out. He could hardly step completely out of the lake or say "I'm sorry, I didn't—" before he felt hands shove him roughly away and onto the ground.

"What was zat for?" he said in a mildly joking tone, grimacing and starting to stand back up as Arthur, soaking wet now, advanced toward him.

"Instinct," growled Arthur, scowling now. "What was _that_ for?"

"Teasing," Francis told him with the same bluntness that Arthur had said "instinct." Chuckling, he went on, "I didn't know you couldn't swim—"

Before his grin could get too wide, Arthur pushed him in the shoulder, and still rather harshly. "No one ever taught me, you git!"

With Arthur being so close and confrontational, Francis gave him a semi-playful hit back, but then the Prince hit back again and very quickly, they were beating at each other and practically falling over at some points—until Arthur delivered a punch straight to Francis's nose, causing a startling _crack_ and for Francis to actually fall to the ground.

With that, all of Arthur's sudden rush of genuine anger and frustration dissolved very quickly to worry, and he unclenched his fist and ran over to the man on the ground with his arms out in front of him.

"_Francis!_—Oh—Dear God, I'm sorry—shite—you're bleeding—"

It was very obvious how sorry he was for actually doing something that _made him bleed_, even to a slightly dizzy Francis who was pushing himself up off the ground and looking up at Arthur's worried face with one eye squinting shut on its own and his nose broken and throbbing from the pain and blood flowing freely.

And in a couple seconds, Arthur had gone from being in enough of a rage to lose control and knock Francis to the ground, to putting the sleeve of his own tunic over Francis's nose to wipe up a bit of the blood.

"How lucky I must be zat you didn't tsink to reach for your sword," he said quietly and with a slight, breathy (and painful) laugh.

Arthur stared at him for a moment but said nothing, wanting to laugh but at the same time feeling very seriously glad that he had indeed not done that, and he then looked him straight in the eye and said, "Hit me."

"…What?"

"Do it." Arthur took Francis's sleeves and pulled him up to a sitting position. "Punch me in the face, and we shall be even. I want us to remain as equals." The urgency in his voice was prominent, as he was speaking somewhat breathlessly as he stared intently into Francis's half-closed eyes.

"I'm not going to punch you…," he said softly, shaking his head a little and trying not to let the steadily growing light-headedness affect him. He tried to smile a little, both to be ironic and in a small attempt to show that he was fine. He didn't know why he wasn't all that angry, though.

"You must!" Arthur pressed, the look in his eyes getting sharper now. "Punch me!"

"It's not necessary, Arthur—"

"PUNCH ME!"

The Prince tugged on Francis's tunic more and looked legitimately angry as he shouted that like an order, and, finally feeling the delayed anger, Francis wound his fist back and hit Arthur so that he was almost caught off-guard. It was a well-aimed hit and caught him in the right spot, and he fell over clutching his nose at once. Francis winced and made to bend over to check on him, but he sat up on his own before the man had the chance.

Now they were both staring at each other's bloody faces, feeling much more calm satisfaction than a conventional couple (or any two people ever) should have had. They both still felt the pain in their face (Arthur's being more fresh), but neither of them were showing it. And both of them were breathing rather heavily, as though they felt breathless, and not saying anything for the moment being.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Arthur cracked a smile and let out a short laugh of relief and irony and possibly something else. His lips stretched wider, and he started laughing more, in a way that Francis had rarely ever heard it before. The Prince rarely smiled like that, even to _him_—even when there was some malicious reason. And his laugh was rich and deep and rare and beautiful, and it reminded Francis somehow of home and almost made him forget that they both had blood on their faces—and it made him start laughing almost uncontrollably, too.

In the midst of the ironic laughter, Arthur followed his sudden urge (and what he thought he really should have done, anyway) to kiss Francis, minding their broken noses but not stopping when they weren't minding them enough to not hurt that much. They could both taste blood in their mouths, but neither of them cared. It was disturbingly romantic, in a way.

"_Zat's disgusting,_" said a voice that belonged to neither of them—but which was in fact too high-pitched to belong to any human. Slightly startled, they broke apart abruptly to see Cherami, fluttering above them with her little nose wrinkled in dislike (undoubtedly for all the blood), followed by Tinker and Lilley, who both had the same expression.

Without warning, all three of the faeries flew down to the same level as their faces and put a hand on their broken noses. Arthur and Francis sat still in silence, no longer surprised, as it had become obvious what they were doing. Which they were indefinitely grateful for, since that would have been difficult to explain to his father.

Once the faeries were finished and there wasn't even a single speck of blood on either of their faces, Francis and Arthur gave them their thanks and felt their noses to make sure they felt fine.

"_I hope we don't always have to be the ones to make sure you two don't kill each other,_" said Tinker in a half-giggle, though also half-serious. The two men on the ground smiled wryly, and she flew off with her two friends, at which they all sighed and then said simultaneously:

"_Boys._"

"_Men._"

"'_Umans…._"

* * *

**That second scene was really fun to write... I just love the faeries. And when Francis and Arthur fight but in a romantic way. Because Francis is the one who can simultaneously get Arthur at his angriest and get him at his happiest. THEIR LOVE IS LEGENDARY. **

**Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and favorites, guys! I hope to see more feedback, too. ^_^**


	14. I should have expected this

**I am seriously pleased with all the good feedback this story has gotten. I love all of you, okay? Okay. Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

It was quite the convenience to have friends who happened to be faeries who could heal broken noses and get rid of blood, for it occurred to Arthur later that day how impossible it would have been to come up with a proper explanation to give his father (because of course the man would have noticed if he'd come into the castle with blood on his face).

He supposed he could have told him that he and Francis had gotten into a fight, but then that would have led to the question of why the fight had started. And Arthur certainly couldn't have told him _that_—not the real reason, anyway. But even if he'd simply said, "Because Francis decided to push me into the lake," his father would have started making taunts about how a peasant had managed to push him into a lake and how that somehow made him less fit to be King.

Yes, thank God for faeries. Too bad hardly anyone believed in them.

The following Sunday, the ground was rather muddy and sloshy from the rain on the previous day and that morning. But of course that didn't stop Francis and Arthur—they weren't going to put a halt in their routine for a bit of mud. Francis had mud on his boots most of the time anyway, and Arthur could always get his cleaned.

"I like it when ze air's misty like zis, don't you?" said Francis softly, when they were a ways down the path that led to their usual place. They were surrounded on all sides by nothing but grass for a good distance, and there were absolutely no signs of any other person being nearby, so he took the pause to slip his hand into Arthur's and grip it tightly. It wasn't often they were able to do that while walking. "Zair's normally so much fog. But right now it's more like mist…."

"Still can't see too far ahead in it," Arthur grunted, acting nonchalant as he gratefully squeezed the other man's hand. He pursed his lips and frowned a little in thought, then looked over in the direction of the forest. "The faeries are up to something, I would bet. A seasonal tradition that causes a lot of magic in the air, probably."

Francis was silent for a few seconds as he just stared at Arthur. As long as he'd known him, and as much as he knew himself how true the existence of faeries was, it still amazed him how the Prince of England could speak so bluntly about that sort of thing, as though it were normal. He remembered what Arthur had told him about having first met the faeries and other creatures of magic when he was very young, and he supposed it was just natural that he would see all this as normal. He wondered if Arthur would be seen as a bad King and thought to have some sort of sickness of the mind for bringing up the subject of magic at all.

On the matter of magic, Francis could honestly say that Arthur had opened his mind and returned him to the state of mind of a child who believed in everything. That was certainly not a bad thing for him, but now he was always curious: What else was real? And did that include nightmarish things like dragons, sirens, and griffins—the creatures of lore from so many centuries prior? He almost hadn't wanted to ask about those. And he almost wished that he hadn't, as they apparently _were_ very real—he'd rather not have known. But then he supposed he was glad that there was still very much magic left in the world.

The concept of magic being real and in fact all around them, though, was still new to Francis. Now, he supposed witches and such must have real magic as well, and that everything he'd ever heard about them being "from the Devil" must have been wrong. Clearly Arthur must have had a lot of magic inside of him… so could he have possibly been a wizard of some sort? Francis didn't know how he felt about that.

Still. Magic. Possibilities. Now he couldn't help the ideas running through his mind, and he wondered exactly how far those faeries' magic could go….

"You've actually been quiet for several minutes, what a miracle," Arthur said, snapping Francis from his drifting thoughts and reminding him that they were walking. And that they were now on their way down the small hill that led to the forest. "Shall I start a Fool's ballad and go roast a peasant—sorry, I meant pheasant—in celebration? I think we—"

Francis snapped his head around and gave Arthur a slightly dirty look before giving him a hard enough push just to make him jerk somewhat to the side and smirk briefly at him. He heard a short, breathy laugh come from the Prince's mouth as well.

"I was merely… tsinking—"

"Another miracle!"

Another shove, and then Francis turned his face in the other direction. "It's stupid. But I was tsinking… about magic. And wondering whezzer zair was enough in ze world to free you of ze marriage you will soon be forced into." His voice softened morosely with that, as he himself hadn't even quite realized that such a thing was on his mind at the moment. But looking back on his thoughts, he supposed it was.

Arthur's smirk dissolved to be replaced with an "_Oh,_" sort of look, and Francis responded to that with a quiet, "I know it's stupid—"

"Of course there's enough magic for that, you git," he told him, his voice cracking a little. Francis looked at him curiously and widened his eyes. "More than enough in England alone, probably. But that sort of thing means changing _the King's_ mind. Changing Llewellyn's mind. Making a lot of people forget things, even. Destroying parts of the past. Meddling in affairs that have already been signed upon and yet still avoiding chaos. That sort of thing would mean paying a price, whether it be to a dragon or a witch or even a demon…. And most of the time, those prices aren't worth it. You should know that."

For a few seconds, they simply walked at a slow pace and looked at each other, Arthur's eyes holding some of the most seriousness and at the same time sadness that he'd ever had. He wanted to make sure the man across from him understood this.

Which he did. Francis blinked once and nodded slowly, and after another couple seconds he looked away and just ahead, at the thicket of trees they were walking into rather than stopping.

"…I know," he half-sighed, resigning himself to it. In all honestly, he _had_ hoped a little bit. Part of him was willing to pay almost any price to make sure Arthur didn't have to get married. Part of him knew that Arthur felt the same, too. "But… I—still, I wish, some'ow… I could marry you. Per'aps. If you wanted to."

Arthur felt very nearly like he'd been pushed to the ground and had the breath knocked out of him, his lungs felt so suddenly empty. He hardly showed it, though, but for his sudden stiffness and the pause he took before letting his eyes widen and his mouth open and his hand tighten in Francis's. _Huh._ He'd almost forgotten they were holding hands.

The edge of his lips started to twist into what would have become a rather wide smile, but it became an ironic, almost painful smile as he curled his lips and looked down, shaking his head a bit. "A man, marry another man… _ha_. An absolutely ridiculous notion. Assassination of the King would readily be allowed the day two men can marry each other…."

The thought made him want to cry, as he truly realized how cruel that was. At the same time, however, it was the most confusing thing to him—he honestly did want that very much. The idea of two men marrying each other had never once been entertained in his mind at all, and the very idea honestly seemed ridiculous in nature, but he wanted that so much with Francis and he didn't really know why…. He wanted Francis to be his husband, but he also wanted to be Francis's husband.

Though Arthur hadn't said so, Francis could somehow tell that all of that meant that the Prince would marry him now if he could. Smiling sadly, he looked in between Arthur and the ground and the trees in front of them. "I wouldn't expect it to ever 'appen. Even if it did… it likely still would not be allowed between you and me. You're ze Prince, and… well. Zair cannot be two Kings."

"I'm not even sure if I want to be King anymore," Arthur said so quickly that he almost didn't register saying it, and it was in a low voice that cracked near the end and made it sound as though he might have been about to cry. As soon as he'd said it, he inhaled sharply as a sort of a small gasp and looked up at Francis in realization and alarm.

Before Francis could think of a response to him having said such a thing, Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath and looked down, putting his face in his hands and trying not to let out any tears—but he just didn't want to look at anything.

"God—Dear _God_, Francis, look what you've done to me…." Feeling suddenly lost and almost a bit dizzy, he stopped walking altogether and just sat down on the ground where they were, leaving Francis to stand over him and listen. Still with his face in his hands, he said, his voice echoing weirdly in the small space it was provided by his hands, "I have looked forward to the day that I became crowned King of England ever since Allistor left. I have trained and worked for so much of my life toward becoming a man who would make a skillful King one day, despite all the things my father has said…."

His voice sounded weak and tired, and when he moved his hands down to his lap and just stared at the space across from him, his expression looked weak and tired as well. After a few seconds of silence, Francis decided to sit down next to him. If only so he could look at him better—as he didn't know quite what to say about this.

But he didn't have to, because Arthur turned his head around to him a second later and conveyed a look through his eyes that made Francis never want to look away.

"I am not a Prince anymore, Francis," he said softly, almost resignedly. Like he had known it for a while, but was just now coming to terms with it. Except it wasn't something that was exactly true in the technical sense. "_You_, Francis, you've… you've turned me into, simply… Arthur Kirkland. No longer "Prince Arthur"… I can hardly think of myself as such."

He finished quietly, looking at the grass and not wanting to meet Francis's eyes and subsequently be met with a look that would make him feel embarrassed for having admitted all that. But he would give up the kingdom for Francis, he knew it, and because of that, he knew he had practically ceded the title of _King_ already.

His eyes trained on the worried crease in the middle of Arthur's brow as the man looked down, Francis frowned in slight sadness and remained silent for a few seconds. But then, with a rather quiet sigh, he shifted himself in the grass a bit more toward Arthur's front, getting his attention with a soft touch on his knee.

"You are my Prince," Francis told him quietly, his expression soft. Carefully, his hand came up to the other man's shoulder, and Arthur was too busy staring back at him and feeling his chest grow warm to realize. "…Even if you're not a very good one."

At Francis's sudden, stupid smirk, Arthur's warm feeling vanished for the most part, and he frowned and shoved him away a bit by his chest—but he couldn't hold that frown for long when Francis let out a laugh and leaned forward to throw both arms around his waist and force them both to topple over. When they were both lying in the grass, they realized that the slant of the clearing had put Francis somewhat more elevated than Arthur—but they also realized that that position was rather convenient.

Settled comfortably in the grass, which was still somewhat wet with yesterday's rain, Arthur just looked up at the man lying beside him (but also above him) and allowed himself to relax his face and smile. Francis slid one arm out from under his Prince to hold himself up, but he kept the other over his stomach to keep a hand on his hip as he matched Arthur's smile with his own and lowered his face to kiss him softly on the lips.

A content smile grazed his face as he continued to press more kisses to Arthur's mouth, all short and capturing those lips in the gentlest way possible before letting go and doing it again. They were all faerie-light kisses that made Arthur's face heat up and his cheeks ache more from smiling just slightly more each time.

Arthur liked kissing, but not as much as he liked being kissed. Of course there were times when he wanted to direct everything and make Francis feel the way he made _him_ feel, but it was a rather nice feeling to just lie on his back and remain relaxed and only have to move his lips lazily as Francis kept on with the small kisses. They never got faster or harder, and he was fine with that. It came to a point that Francis's hand had crept underneath his tunic just to innocently rub his side, and Arthur raised a hand to caress Francis's cheek. Both of them had their eyes closed, and all they could hear was the soft and almost nonexistent sound of each other breathing.

"I should have expected this."

At the sound of a snarling, disgusted voice that belonged to neither of them, everything stopped. Their bodies froze and their hearts caught in their chests, and the feeling that had been growing in their chests was immediately retracted and replaced with pure horror. For a moment, Francis and Arthur stared directly into each other's wide eyes, the latter mouthing _"No."_

Finding himself unable to breathe but nearly forgetting altogether that he needed to do so, Francis furrowed his brow in horrible, horrible resignation and forced himself to turn around slowly, upon which he saw a disgusted-looking King folding his arms and glaring at them. His heart began to beat so deeply that he thought it was going to create a hole in his chest and fall out the back.

_Not again, _no_, not again, not again, not again…,_ he thought desperately in panic, having a hard time believing that this was actually happening and at the same time horrified by everything—even himself, for having not been careful enough and letting this happen. He could already feel everything he had with Arthur being destroyed, and the King standing over the remains like an all-powerful deity who had smote them and everything around them to dust.

Behind him, Arthur had already stood up, and he was scarcely breathing in his fear and too panicked to wonder how his father had managed to find them, let alone approach them without either of them hearing. He fancied himself braver than most, and while he was by no means ready to face his father about this, it was easier for him to stand up than for Francis, who hesitated much more. Especially in the King's deadly silence that lasted until they were both standing.

"I should have expected this," the King repeated, but this time with a smoother, more acidic tone. "It was only a matter of time before you actually _pursued_ a disgusting relationship like this, Arthur…. I should never have hired Francis. I should have known he would be like you. And for it to be now, when you are slated to be married… is this to spite me?"

Shaking from anger and the urge to cry that he had to force himself to hold back, Arthur gave his father the worst glare he could muster. Which wasn't at all difficult. Through gritted teeth and with a voice that nearly cracked, he said defiantly, "Everything is not about _you_. It is because I love him."

That made the King's lip curl even more in disgust, and he narrowed his eyes further. "_A man,_" he spat. "You love _a man_…." Unfolding his arms, he started to walk forward, and Francis instinctively stepped directly in front of Arthur despite knowing that he would be no defense without a weapon. Well, except for his knife… but both of the other men had swords. "Such sin does not belong in the House of Kirkland or any King, and I will not have it."

Upon hearing those dark words, Arthur was already prepared to just announce that he was ceding the throne to Peter and take Francis's hand and run off, but he was granted hardly a second before he felt something blunt and metal hit the back of his head, and at once he was falling, falling… and everything went dark.

Francis heard the clang and spun around on his heel immediately in more panic. He only had a second to see one of the guards from the castle with a sword in his hand, a horse behind him, and an unconscious Arthur on the ground before he felt the same blow to the back of his head and fell to the ground.

* * *

The feeling on his cheek was cold, and Arthur realized within a few seconds of regaining consciousness that he was lying on the stone floor of the main hall of the castle. It took him more time to register the throbbing ache in the back of his head and remember what had happened, then realize that he must have been hit with the flat of a sword. Speaking of which, his own sword was gone.

_So my own father had me knocked out and dragged, unconscious, to the castle…._ That thought was certainly not the horrifying part, though—it then registered to him that Francis was on the other side of the hall, at least twenty feet away from him, and he was still unconscious. There were two guards on either side of both of them, and the King was standing directly in the middle several feet in front of them, facing them and still looking angry. Arthur hesitated for at least a minute to push himself up off the ground to a standing position, and then he still remained silent as he stared at Francis and wished with all his might that this wasn't happening.

He knew that they were about to go through a trial. He'd seen trials many times before from the sidelines—sometimes for thieves, sometimes for murder, and even some for people accused of the sin he'd been caught at just now (or—probably at least an hour ago). But he'd never thought he'd be going through one himself.

His mind and heart were in a frenzy. Immensely angry at the King, terrified of what he suspected would happen to Francis, wanting to cry simply because of how this was ruined, _everything was ruined_…. As a Prince, though, he'd learned to hide his emotions. So his potential tears remained trapped inside, and he refused to show that fear. But he had no problem shaking and gritting his teeth with anger and blatantly refusing to look at his father.

Until Francis stirred a couple minutes later, and he scrambled to stand up as well, automatically looking to Arthur with a terrified—and almost… apologetic?—expression.

"Good," the King said mirthlessly, and though his voice was relatively quiet, it still seemed to echo. "Now that you are both awake, I can sentence you before the court."

It was only then that Arthur remembered that trials weren't with the King alone. Finally looking toward the front of the room, he noticed that behind his father were a priest, a scribe, and several knights. A glance behind him told him that his mother and Peter, among many of the castle servants, were standing along the sides of the room. He suddenly felt like an animal trapped inside a cage.

The King stepped forward before speaking again, and each step echoed throughout the silent hall and made Arthur's heart grow even more fraught with fear.

"I failed in my judgment when I hired Francis, that much I admit. And I cannot say with honesty that this peasant alone is responsible for Arthur's sinful behavior. But I also cannot execute my own son." He then glanced over to where the Queen was, as though he had actually discussed this with her and she had had to persuade him to spare their son's life. But Arthur was still fairly sure that the only reason he wasn't going to be killed was because he had a marriage planned that was supposed to secure a peaceful bond with Wales.

_If _I'm_ not going to be killed, though, then—_

"So," the King went on, "Francis Bonnefoy, you are to be hanged for the strongly suspected crime of sodomy, and with _the Prince_ no less, tomorrow at dawn. Guards, take him to his cell—"

"_NO!_" Arthur screamed in horror, not even trying to hold back tears as he lurched himself forward to reach for Francis, only to be held back by the guards that were next to him. He was suddenly back in that nightmare again, and Francis was being dragged to his death. Which wasn't far from the truth at all. _No, no, no,_ he couldn't let this happen…. "_If_ _you hang him, I'll kill myself!_" he shouted desperately with a choked voice, and at once he knew he wasn't even lying. What reason would he have to live once Francis was gone, anyway? "And then you won't have anyone to marry Gwenllian!"

He couldn't see it well at first through his tears, but the King held out a hand to stop the guards from dragging Francis any farther, clearly thinking about this new problem. There was really no way to stop Arthur from committing suicide, and the man certainly couldn't leave the throne to Peter, nor was he going to allow the possibility of an alliance to crumble.

"…Fine, then." It seemed to take the King much effort (and loss of pride?) to say, not only because he obviously hated to comply to Arthur's wishes at all but also because he must have resented having to let Francis live. It was an undermining-of-power thing. "My only other choice is to sentence him to exile." He turned to the guards who had a hold of a very terrified Francis and said, "Take him to his home, let him gather his things, and then take him to the edge of the village, where it meets the forest. Francis is hereby exiled from anywhere on this side of the River."

The King's expression was stone-like, but as he turned back to look at Arthur, it seemed to convey a smug _"You're never going to see him again."_

It was better than death, but Arthur still didn't want this. He didn't want Francis out there and to not know whether he was alive or dead, he didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want to be stuck in the front of the hall while Francis was being dragged down the middle, away from him, and without even being able to say goodbye….

He couldn't bear it. The pain in his head and in his chest was too much, and Arthur wasn't quite sure what he was hearing anymore: All he could hear were his own shouts of "_FRANCIS!_" as he started running down the hall. The hands holding him back failed to restrain him and his sudden burst of strength and will to get to the man in question, and no one seemed to be able to do anything in time before he was close enough to grab Francis's face and kiss him.

He just needed one last kiss. A goodbye kiss. He didn't care about the cumulative gasp from nearly everyone in the hall or that he could feel all their disgusted looks on him.

Francis broke his arms free enough to hold on and kiss him back with desperation, trying so hard to convey how much he loved him, how he would never forget him, and how sorry he was. Because he was _so_, so sorry. He felt like this was all his fault….

There wasn't enough time before Arthur felt hands at the back of his tunic, pulling him away, and Francis felt the same on his arms. Even as they were being pried apart, though, they refused to let go without a fight. It took all of Arthur's strength to keep his lips attached to Francis's for even another second, and as they were pulled apart completely, it was no surprise to either of them that there were tears streaming down both their faces.

"_Je t'aime_," choked Arthur, still reaching out and kicking to be let go. "_Toujours._"

The fact that he'd said it in French made Francis's heart stop. He tried to say it back, but his voice was too choked, his throat too swollen, to allow him to get it out. So he forced a sad smile through his tears and nodded.

And at that moment, both of their hearts broke.

But they kept resisting until the last second.

* * *

**It had to happen at some point. And some of you guessed this, anyway. Either way, I'm still sorry. I got really sad just writing it. Well... at least you know we're officially at the conflict point of the story. We've got at least 4 more chapters left to go, and that may or may not include an epilogue. **

**Translation(s):**

**_Toujours_ - Forever**

**Also, the King was referring to the Thames. Just so you know. **

**And of course, I'd really like it if you reviewed. Especially for this chapter, since I want to know whether or not you cried. And what you think is going to happen. And general other stuff. All feedback is good feedback! :D**


	15. Love is not a sin

**I worked really hard to get this chapter finished for you guys at least pretty close to being within the week. I didn't manage to get much other stuff done during the weekend, though.**

**Also, if you would direct your attention to the new cover art, that is fanart that I made myself based on the last chapter. I didn't think it was too spoilery and I was proud of it, so I decided to make it the cover. If you want to see the full-size version, it's on my deviantArt, the link to which is in my profile.**

**Also, TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of possible sexual assault. Also, if you feel strongly about LGBT rights for whatever reason, you may cry or at least get majorly upset by some of the happenings in this chapter. Just letting you know that I obviously don't condone them; you guys know how harsh the medieval era was. I wouldn't really advise you to just skip the chapter, though... it's just a warning so you can prepare your feelings.**

* * *

Arthur was dragged to his father's private study a broken man.

His heart ached so badly that he didn't know what was real anymore—he didn't know if Francis was still in the castle or even still in the village, and he didn't know where he was being taken until he was no longer in the tight grip of the guards but instead on the cold floor of the study, the guards already walking away and shutting the door, leaving him alone with the King.

He currently didn't know whether he was still crying or not—but the blurry image of his father as he looked up told him that he was. And he obviously couldn't see himself, but he would have bet that his eyes were red and swollen and half-shut in his haze. He wanted to stand up and take his ground rather than remain on the floor, however hopeless and broken he felt—but before he could, he was grabbed by his hair and pulled up painfully.

"I noticed you lying on your back in that clearing," his father spat, and Arthur could feel the man's disgusting breath hit his face. The King's voice was low and acidic still, his eyes trained on his son's. "…So, are you the one who takes it, like a _woman_?"

His grip on Arthur's hair grew tighter with that, and the Prince took that growling remark as a stab in the heart of not only fear, but just plain _hurt_. He refused to show his fear or pain, however—he just kept his expression like stone as he stared back at his father and said nothing.

Apparently not expecting him to speak, either, the King raised him up further by his hair and forced Arthur to his knees, and with a horrible, cruel expression, said, "Not only does the heir to the throne partake in the sin of sodomy, but he _enjoys_ being penetrated, does he? He wishes to be King, and yet he is submissive to a _peasant_…."

Hearing Francis referred to like that, especially now, made Arthur angry enough that his whole body was shaking. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet he didn't because it would have been useless and in fact counter-productive—as in, his father would have gotten angrier. And he loathed being on his knees like this, no weapon, no defense, with his father holding his hair as though he was a slave…. It was more emasculating than what the man must have thought making love to a man was, or could ever have been.

The King still did not let go.

"You wish to be King," he reiterated, raising his voice slightly. "You wish to have command over hundreds of men and thousands of people—this whole land… and yet you are willing to relinquish your power. To a peasant. To a _Frenchman_." Once again, his voice snarled in disgust, and Arthur winced internally. He didn't want to hear Francis being spoken of like that. "How many weeks have passed without me having knowledge of this sinful, disgusting courtship? How many times have you committed sin with that man inside these castle walls, right under my nose, _hm?_ How many times have you gotten on your knees for that peasant and _done a woman's job for him?_"

By the end of it, his father's voice had reached the peak of anger and disgust—and so had Arthur, internally. He felt murderous. It was the willpower of a hundred men to keep those feelings inside and remain seemingly emotionless to make sure he didn't give that man the satisfaction. There were several moments of silence between them, and Arthur almost thought his father might have finally been letting go of his hair. But then—

With a strong yank of his hair, the King stood up fully and jerked Arthur's head forward, where he was faced no more than a fist's space away from the groin of his father's trousers. It was then that he allowed himself to give away his extreme fear, as his eyes widened with the realization of what his father meant to do—or at least was simulating briefly, if he didn't mean to do it.

"I suppose you rather enjoy being the _giving_ partner in the act of fellatio, don't you?" he snarled, gripping Arthur's hair even more painfully. "You, the Prince of England, _like_ this shameful position…. If you truly like being put in this place—"

Panic kicked in at once, and Arthur jerked his head back and out of his father's grip too quickly to tell if the man was actually reaching for the button on his trousers or not. He was hit with a sudden throbbing pain, and he was sure that some of his hair must have been ripped out just now, but he hardly registered that as he swung his legs up and hit the King directly in-between his legs, thus causing a considerable _thump_ and an "_Umph_—"

Arthur was flat on his back on the floor for a moment, but it was several feet away from his father now, and he was able to push himself up within the second. Meanwhile, the King was stumbling and groaning from having been hit in the most sensitive part of his body. Not quite incapacitated, though, and Arthur felt the need to make him so.

The Prince was angry. For Francis being taken away from him, for his father insulting him like that, and for his father forcing him to his knees for that purpose… he still felt murderous. And because of what exactly the man had been about to do, his fear was kicking in to make him want to run for safety—

But while he was up, he instinctively reached for his father's spare sword first. His preservation instincts kicked in just a bit more, to make him more consciously aware of the situation and thus turn the sword on its side to hit the King in the head with the flat of the blade as hard as he could.

That was the first time he'd ever had his own father on the ground. It hadn't been a fair battle—or even a battle at all, really—but he had finally defeated that man in something. Arthur only briefly wondered whether or not any of the guards would have heard that scuffle and come to the King's aid to find that he was unconscious before he dropped the sword and headed straight for the door, still livid.

He simply couldn't deal with it. If Francis had just left and there'd been no more conflict, he might have been relatively okay. Still angry and broken, but not so desperately wanting to hit something, to hurt something, to hurt _himself_… to just straight up and leave the castle.

Without hesitating, Arthur reached his room at a swift pace and headed immediately to where he kept his own spare sword, then quickly sheathed it in his belt. His eyes were almost completely hazed over, as he was only half-aware of himself opening drawers to find a sack, and then through more to find spare tunics and also whatever else he thought he would need.

_Yes,_ he thought almost maniacally, this sort of thought not entirely new to him, _I'll just leave. I shall just leave and go find Francis myself and stay with him, wherever he is._

Francis couldn't have been too far away at this point… he'd been dragged out of the castle no more than twenty minutes ago. Hell, he might not have even been all the way out of the village by now. Following him directly would have been immensely stupid…. But he could always get into the forest and go a separate path and then wait for Francis on the other side of the Thames.

There was no scenario in Arthur's mind where he didn't come out on top. A life with Francis stuck too far away from him and not even being allowed to write letters to him was simply just too unrealistic—he couldn't fathom it, and he just didn't know what he would do. He couldn't understand. It was all too surreal.

So it seemed like a perfectly rational idea to head out of his bedroom right then into the luckily empty corridor, and then sneak down to one of the inconspicuous exits of the castle. He was set and determined to just _get away_, the whole time almost breathless with panic and with his heart pounding in his ears.

Several corridors and a few pairs of guards avoided (thanks to his knowledge of all the niches of the castle) later, he ran around a corner and straight into a rather wide-set chest that could only have been his father.

The pain of chain-mail pressing into his face couldn't even register before he was grabbed by the hair again, and his father bent down so that his mouth was level to Arthur's ear.

"If you were going to attempt to escape the confines of this castle," he said smoothly, making horrible fear kick in again, "you could have been more discreet about it, or perhaps even waited. That was pathetic."

It seemed stupid to Arthur that the man would give him advice like that—but only for a second, and then he realized what his father was likely about to say. His eyes widened and his lungs involuntarily took in a silent gasp in realization before it happened—

The King let go of his son's hair, but then stood up tall, hovering over him. "You will not leave this castle again without my accompaniment. There will be guards at every exit, and during the hours of the night they will also be at the doors to your chambers. Should you try to leave to that Frenchman again, you will be caught and then brought to me for further punishment. Don't think you will ever make it back to that scum."

"He is not scum," Arthur said defiantly at once, and his voice was loud enough that the break in it was only slight. He was over an arm's distance away from his father now, so the man couldn't grab him or even hit him again. His face was strained, as he was struggling to keep too much pain from showing. "He is my life, and you will never understand."

Surprisingly, his father didn't immediately react to that. The King's face remained stoic until he frowned just a bit more a few seconds later, and stepped forward once, bending over slightly and looking straight into Arthur's eyes. "You are correct, I won't. But it will not matter, for he cannot be your life anymore." Rather than acidic or even threatening, his tone was casually cruel, and it made Arthur hate him even more. He then straightened his stance and began walking in the other direction. "Supper is ready."

Arthur had no choice but to follow.

* * *

No matter what his father said, Arthur wasn't going to give up and allow Francis to fade from his life. He knew that such a task would be impossible even if he tried. Every second he lived, he had decided moments after his father had said that, would be for the possibility of someday getting Francis back.

It was strange, how just a few months ago, he was trying so very hard to not love Francis, and now that man was all he wanted. Arthur had no ambivalence over the matter—he had no problem with being so heartbroken over him being exiled. He wasn't ashamed, and he wasn't trying not to feel that pain anymore. To himself, he very openly loved him, and he knew that he would never get over him, not even if he didn't get to see him for the rest of his life.

That night, Arthur couldn't fall asleep. He wasn't sure if he even knew how to sleep anymore…. It felt strangely normal on some level, as he'd been used to going to bed without Francis in the castle for the past couple weeks, but there was also the fact ringing out in his head that he wouldn't see him in the morning. Or any of the mornings after. It wasn't until a rather late hour that he stopped crying and slipped into unconsciousness.

He woke up some hours later with a headache and the sudden memories of a nightmare that made him want to take a cold bath. Dried tears covered his face, and as he tried to rub them off, it occurred to him that the guards outside of his chambers had probably heard his choked sobs last night, but he also didn't care. Princes weren't supposed to cry, but he'd already made it clear that he wasn't really a Prince anymore.

A look out the window told him that he'd slept through breakfast. And apparently no one had cared to wake him up, either. Not that he cared, really… he'd rather not have gone down to the dining hall and faced his family again. There had been enough disapproving looks and nasty comments last night.

Arthur found the bathtub full of warm water, so he figured a servant must have come in and drawn the bath for him. And as he checked a second time, he realized that they must have brought in food as well, for there was a plate of fruit and bread on his desk. He was glad for it, but he wasn't all that hungry at the moment. He supposed he would eat it later, after a bath.

About a minute in, he briefly considered drowning himself. Because of his past studies, however, he knew he wouldn't have been able to without keeping something heavy on top of him. Apparently the human mind was such an amazing thing that it would keep you from killing yourself that way if you had control. Even if he just purposely breathed in water, though, that would be too painful.

The bath actually didn't help all that much, as the water made him feel pensive and thus wouldn't let him stop thinking about Francis. But, as Arthur told himself when he stepped out of the bath to dry himself off and dress himself—

"It's horrible pain, but… I have to keep feeling it. I won't stop anyway, and if I don't feel it, then I'll forget it."

There was an invisible scar from where Francis had been ripped away from him, and he wanted to keep it. He didn't care how obvious it was or that it would never heal unless he got Francis back. But he just didn't want to lose it.

Once he fastened the belt around his tunic, he looked down and remembered the ring on his finger—the one Francis had given him. For the longest time afterward, Arthur just sat down and twisted the ring sadly, both immensely relieved about how lucky he had been that it hadn't been taken away from him as well and immensely sad that this was all he had left.

And he remembered what Francis had said when he'd given it to him. _"__If you're ever away from me for too long or if sometsing 'appens and you can never see me again…"_

Had he known this would happen? Of course, Francis had had a past in which a very similar thing had happened… but had he expected it all along? Had he gone straight into this relationship knowing how likely it was that it would have to end this way—and so soon?

The thought made Arthur angry, and he had the sudden impulse to pull the ring off and throw it across the room—but he didn't, as he realized that he had done the same thing. It was his own fault, too. How likely would it have been that they could have gone for years, even into the days of his marriage, without being found out? He knew that these things happened, and they never lasted for long. He and Francis were never destined to last forever, it seemed.

It was worth it, though. And this didn't mean anything. Arthur could still hold out for him, assuming Francis would live that long, wherever he would live.

_No, don't think about that. Francis can hunt, and he can fight, and he is smart. He will not die. _

Eventually, Arthur's thoughts came to a stop when he realized how hungry he was. He was grateful for the distraction of food that lasted several minutes, and when it was gone, he decided that there had to be something for him to do. Normally he would either do his usual training duties or take up a bit of drawing in this time, but he decided to take a bit of a walk around the corridors. He really just wanted to see how well guarded all of the castle exits were, and if there were any that his father had forgotten about.

As he walked through the corridors, his own footsteps seemed to get louder and louder to him. Being surrounded by stone and a few statues here and there somehow calmed him down—except for every time he passed a set of guards, and they seemed to stare him down as he did. It occurred to him that every person in the castle—possibly even some in the village—knew about him and Francis now. While he normally would have not cared about the opinion of anyone else, it made him feel horribly uncomfortable that so many people must have thought he was disgusting.

"Oi, there you are."

Arthur spun around on his heel to face Peter, who was approaching him from behind, and frowned.

"Father wishes for you to attend meals," his brother told him, his voice even. "And he bade me to tell you that if you do not show up in the dining hall on your own, a guard will drag you down there by your leg at every mealtime. So come eat lunch."

Arthur waited for Peter to say something else, to add to that with some derisive comment about Francis. But when nothing came, he nodded stiffly and walked ahead of his brother down to the dining hall, trying not to think of what Peter must have thought of him _now_.

The whole time he ate his lunch, he kept his eyes in front of him and refused to make eye contact with even his mother. It was quick and relatively small, though—he wasn't very hungry, anyway. But as he silently excused himself and stood up from his seat to walk away from the table, he instinctively turned his head back around to check if Francis was following him.

_Oh._ Francis… wasn't there anymore. Arthur paused for too long in that position of looking back, and he could tell that his family noticed it. They all glanced up and stared at him for that time, and likely after he blinked and turned back and continued walking up the stairs to his chambers as well. Thankfully no one said anything.

Right. No lessons today. Or ever again. And Arthur wasn't permitted to leave the castle either, so he couldn't even go sit in the grass and talk to the faeries. Not that he would have merely done that if given the permission to go outside alone. Either way… what was he supposed to do now?

It seemed that with Francis being taken away, so was his entire life that he'd had even before Francis. Things hadn't gone back to normal at all; they had just gotten worse.

Once he returned to his chambers, he decided to punch the wall a couple times until his knuckles bled and then read over the parchment stacks full of French lessons that Francis had left. They weren't going to teach him any more French than what he already knew, but at least he wouldn't forget.

* * *

It was very obvious to everyone how much Arthur missed Francis—and through that, clearly how much Arthur had and still loved him—by the end of the week. He would do everything that was required and expected of him—attend meals and order servants around and whatnot, but when he was not doing those things, he remained in his chambers. Though he didn't hear or see it directly, he knew servants must have reported to the King how they would always enter his room to find him simply sitting at the edge of his bed and looking at his hands, or sitting at his desk with an empty chair next to him as though Francis was still there and looking through the same stack of parchment, or staring out the window, or writing something on a bit of parchment that he would hide from view when they came in.

And Arthur was surprised that his father still wanted him to practice sword-fighting with him on their usual days. He wasn't sure why that surprised him, really—but it just seemed too normal for him. He didn't want to go back to doing normal things as though Francis had never come into his life nor left.

That made it more obvious to the King, though, as Arthur was much more aggressive in their practice. The man really couldn't have expected his son not to loathe him worse than ever now… but he'd still seemed slightly startled when Arthur aimed for his face several times during their sparring. In spite of how stupid that would have been, considering there was a servant standing by who could potentially be a witness, he truly was aiming to kill him. It was too bad that his father was skilled enough to block every one of them.

Every time he tried to strike a blow, though, there was a flash of fear in the man's eyes. That was what Arthur wanted, at the very least. He wanted to be the more powerful one, and he wanted to unleash all of his anger on the man who had taken Francis away.

But that turned out to be bad for him—it was clear to him how angry his father was that he hadn't gotten over Francis at all yet, and in fact it seemed that his feelings for his lover had only increased. So when the King dragged him straight to the Church instead of the castle after their sword-fighting practice on Thursday, Arthur couldn't honestly say he was all that surprised.

"Reverend Father Gideon, I need you to cure my son. It seems that keeping Francis away from him has done nothing, and I cannot have him sulking or dwelling on his love for a man when it comes time for him to marry and fulfill his princely duties. This is partially my fault, for I believe I waited too long to fix his lack of interest in women… but he is here now. And something needs to be done."

"What—_cure?_" Arthur would have protested sooner if his father's words hadn't shocked him to the point of silence and the inability to breathe. He tried to pull away from his father's grip on his arm, but he simply wasn't strong enough. His face then contorted into an expression of anger and fear as he pulled again. "I—I need no _cure_! There is nothing to cure—I have no disease, and I am not mad!"

The King didn't even glance down at him, but instead shoved him farther into the sanctuary, and said to the currently silent priest, "Do what you can. I'll bring him back every day until this is fixed."

As his father walked out, Arthur just stared between him and the priest, his breaths suddenly heavy in horrible anticipation of what he was about to go through.

* * *

"Why do you commit yourself to such lustful sin with that peasant man, even now?"

He'd heard the same question at least thirty times now. He didn't want to hear it anymore. He didn't want to be there anymore.

Despite his resistance, he'd been restrained and tied up to a chair. The priest had set him up in some sort of ritual that didn't even seem familiar to him and then said a long prayer before doing anything else. Now the priest was standing in front of him, holding both a cross and a bible.

At first, Arthur's answer to that had been a simple "Because I love him," and he refused to deviate from that besides his interjecting "When did love become a sin?" every few times he was punished for his answer.

And then it got even more trying. He'd become exhausted, and he'd started to unwittingly admit things in response to the question in his half-conscious haze.

"He's my only friend."

"I feel so lonely without him."

"We share a _bond_."

"No one could ever understand…."

The priest didn't seem to care about those things, though. He never answered Arthur's question, either. He just kept trying to pray Arthur's love for Francis away.

And then, with a lot of effort, Arthur sat up straight in his chair and raised his head to look at the priest completely. He was breathing heavily, and he couldn't keep his eyes fully open, but he could see him, at least. The priest looked him straight in the eye and asked him that question again.

"Love is _not_ a sin," he answered gruffly, almost angrily. There wasn't enough breath in him to speak smoothly.

"It is not," the priest confirmed calmly. "This is lust, however. Lust _is_ a sin."

Father Gideon pulled the rope again and dipped Arthur's head back into the troph full of holy water. He barely had time to hold his breath again before he went under, and he came back up in another coughing fit, not feeling any different from any sort of divine power. All he felt was deeper exhaustion and more will to stay strong.

"How do you feel about Francis now?"

Arthur just coughed and tried to catch his breath for a full minute rather than answering. When he was finally able to talk properly, he raised his head weakly and gave the priest the worst scowl he could muster.

"I love him… more than anything. And—it's… _love_. Not lust. Love."

"You can call it love if you wish, but 'tis a crime against God."

Arthur responded almost immediately that time—"…I think you're wrong about God."

He and the priest just looked at each other with stone-like expressions.

And in the next second, the priest's face didn't falter at all as he pulled the rope and Arthur's head went under again.

* * *

**And... yeah. This was actually a really painful thing for me to write. I'm pansexual and transgender myself, and so whenever I even think of how horribly anyone who wasn't heterosexual had it especially in times like those, I get really depressed. I'm sorry if anyone got upset because of this, like really sorry, actually. But I'm just trying to keep accurate to the time setting, you know. :/**

**As always, though, I'd like some feedback, so reviews are greatly welcomed. I'm not gonna add any sort of emoticon to that, though, because it would ruin the mood of the chapter.**


	16. I don't need any help

**And we return to the dramatic chronicles of Arthur Kirkland. **

**But in all seriousness, I'm gonna warn you guys again of the triggers. It's pretty intense stuff, man. Also, longer chapter than normal.**

* * *

A waterlogged brain was no use for even the most basic of actions.

It was the fourth evening of Arthur having returned to the castle after two hours of what could arguably be called torture. The priest had so far shown no sign of wishing to let up or go astray from the King's orders. In the state he was in, Arthur could only vaguely wonder whether the priest had any qualms about doing this and whether he was merely doing it because of his father.

Every day so far, Arthur's father had dragged him, not yet willingly but always requiring help because of his resistance, straight to the Church for "cleansing," as he had called it. He and Reverend Gideon seemed to believe that praying and torture would relieve him of any "sinful" feelings—that everything he felt for Francis would just go away and turn him into a normal young prince who would be delighted to marry Gwenllian or any other woman.

Well, he'd told them both to their faces that what he felt for Francis was forever, and that not even death would take that away. Along with spitting in their faces. And he didn't want to think of the length of time he'd been continuously dunked in holy water and nearly drowned after both of those instances.

Only four days, and Arthur was already starting to feel his mind go numb altogether. It had been at least twenty minutes since he'd been pulled out of the Church, exhausted and nearly limp, and yet he still found himself unwilling to do anything. His chest wasn't expanding quite as much as it should have with each breath, and his eyesight was going a bit dull, the food on his supper plate swimming dizzily in his dull vision.

All he could do was stare at it. The rest of his family was eating normally, but all Arthur could do was sit and stare vaguely down at his plate, making no attempt to move his arms and grab a utensil. He had no desire to eat. Any hunger he might have had earlier was gone. Any will to do anything but cry was gone—and yet that was the one thing he had the will to refuse to do, as well.

"Arthur, I told you that you must attend meals. That includes participating in them, as well. Eat."

The demanding words of his father took a moment to register, and they echoed in his ears for a second before really reaching him. Arthur was suddenly panicking without knowing why, torn between obeying and doing what he actually wanted. His mind was simply too numb to understand an order right now.

He wanted to shake his head and just say "_No_," but after a couple seconds passed, he unconsciously picked up his fork and began eating normally. A bit of his mind had come back to him, just as it always did. And now his surroundings were slightly less vague to him. No one was staring at him anymore, he could tell, but everyone was tense.

It was all as usual.

The dizziness started to get to him no more than five spoonfuls of stew in. Arthur was feeling what felt like the opposite of hungry—he _really_ didn't want to eat. He didn't think he was going to be sick all over the table, but he just didn't want to eat. He was still exhausted. He felt like the pressure of water was still all around his head.

After a small bit of a chunk of meat in his stew, Arthur pulled back and started hacking. It felt as though he had inhaled a bit of water earlier and he was realizing it only now—until he coughed a little too hard and now it felt like he was scratching at the inside of his lungs. Three sets of eyes were on him, but no one said anything as they watched him cough out his pain and get into more of a haze.

Without thinking anymore, Arthur pushed himself away from the table. He'd finished coughing, but the dizziness was still there, and it took a second once he was standing up for him to make sure that he actually _was_ standing up, rather than on the ground.

"Not hungry," he said as he took a step away, trying as hard as he could to speak clearly and not make it obvious that he wasn't entirely coherent. Except he actually was becoming more coherent by the second, since the effects of the dunking were wearing off. No one seemed to be protesting at first, except—

"Arthur, allow some guards to help you to your chambers—"

"I don't—need—any… help…," he grunted, staggering slightly—but before he knew it, his mother was on his side of the table, trying to take hold of his arm.

"Darling, please, you're not fit—"

"What, so you _don't_ agree with them?" With one eye half-shut because of the headache, Arthur turned around on her and scowled, raising his voice, and grabbing onto her shoulders. "You feel sorry for me and what he's—doing to me…? And—and you're not doing anything. Do you think I need to be _fixed_, Mother? _Do you think I'm going to hell?_"

There was a clink of silverware hitting the table, and it was obvious no one was eating at the moment. Arthur had never once gone off on his mother this way—she'd always been the one he was the most peaceable with, although she did tease him with the others at times. But he was suddenly angry at her, now—angry that she would stand by while his father had him sent to a priest every day to be tortured. The woman was just staring back, wide-eyed, at him now, opening and closing her mouth and seemingly unable to answer.

"You don't bring your mother into this," said a low, smooth voice, which Arthur almost didn't realize was the King's, at first. "Off to bed with you, if you're not hungry. Perhaps with the headaches catching up to you, tomorrow's attempt at cleansing will finally work."

It was quite lucky that his father was still sitting down, for Arthur would have been extremely tempted to attack him otherwise. He let go of his mother and glared back at the man for a second, but he then felt a tug at his shoulder, as though his mother was warning him not to lose what little he had of his senses at the moment.

A sharp pang in his head told him to obey and just get the hell back to a bed, where he could lie down and value the time he had in between now and the next day, when it would start again.

Within ten minutes of being back in his chambers, Arthur no longer felt quite as mentally and physically exhausted as before. He simply felt the pain of missing Francis and of Francis having been ripped from him so many times even after he was gone. Because that was essentially what the priest did. He and the King were trying so very hard to replace Arthur's feelings, and that in itself just _hurt_. They were trying to convince him that Francis didn't matter.

But of course he did. Without him, whom was Arthur supposed to take the piss out of? Who was supposed to be there to teach him French and be his equal despite having originally seemed like anything but? Who was going to fill that hole of loneliness that no one had ever taken before?

It was a much bigger hole, now. Arthur still couldn't quite fathom that it was even there—that Francis was far away, and that it might have been forever before he saw him again. And obviously the daily explicit reminders of that along with the torture didn't help.

Every moment of enduring that torture so far, he'd just been wishing for it to stop. That was all he wanted. But while he knew he simply could have lied and said that he liked women now and gotten it over with, he wasn't going to do that. If he had to suffer like this, he wasn't going to live through it with a lie. If he had to be separated from Francis, he was going to stay true to himself and he was _not_ going to pretend not to love Francis now that they knew. And he was most certainly not going to give either his father or the priest the satisfaction of thinking that they'd won. He wasn't going to let them win.

If he had to be forcibly held underwater to the point where he nearly drowned in order to keep his pride and dignity, then so be it. He was ready to make it through however many more days it lasted. It was all worth it, so long as he didn't give up. And really, he did hope, perhaps, that eventually his father would see that "holy torture" did nothing and that his love for Francis was indeed real. Maybe, just maybe, his endurance would make the King see sense.

As horrible as he knew it was going to be, especially as time went on, Arthur was prepared for it. He was prepared for the number of days he was going to return to his chambers in the evening in a worse and worse state each day, and even if he eventually got to the point where he was too exhausted to look out the window and tell Francis goodnight, he was going to brave it.

Each night as he kissed the bronze ring and looked over this side of the kingdom from his tower window, he hoped to God that Francis was not having it nearly as horribly as he was.

* * *

"Give me whatever you find."

Arthur had to step back from the door as several of the castle guards filed into his chambers and immediately began turning things over. The King walked in behind them, surveying their work and purposely looking away from his son.

"Anything that looks like it might have something to do with the Frenchman," the King went on in an authoritative voice, "or that it might be sentimental. Or—to hell with it, anything French, too."

It took a second for Arthur to stop gaping and staring angrily around at the guards violating his things and look to his father. "What is the meaning of this—?—what the devil are you doing?"

Turning casually over to him, the King said, "Surely you don't need to be asking me this…. I am making sure that you have absolutely no physical reminder of your disgusting relationship. Then you can just forget."

…Did he _really_ think that taking away anything Francis might have given him would deter Arthur from loving him? That seemed like a just plain stupid notion, but Arthur also didn't want to lose anything. If his father was thinking that this would also break him further, then he was correct at least in that respect.

There was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was stand and watch while his chambers were practically torn apart, his heart pounding in fear and anxiety and his eyes open wide and flicking back and forth between all the guards. He couldn't step in and stop them—if he could even get past his father, who would surely block him from moving from where he stood, he wouldn't be able to make them stop. And they would surely know that he had something to hide, at that point.

One of the guards pulled a desk drawer open and pulled out a stack of parchment, seemed to squint at it, and then held it up. "Found something!—Looks like his French lessons…."

He made to give it to the King, and Arthur's heart skipped a beat at once as he nearly leapt forward in an attempt to grab it.

"No—_you can't do this!_" he shouted incredulously, unable to believe this was really happening. And he'd thought he'd already done his suffering…. "You cannot just take my things away!"

"I am the King of England, so I shall do what I please," his father said coldly, pushing all the papers into one hand and crumpling it up. "I can't let you have these distractions—it puts my efforts of curing you in vain."

"But—" Arthur felt like he'd been knocked onto the floor, as he could no longer breathe. He couldn't lose those, he simply _couldn't_—it was nearly all that he had left of Francis, and he'd already lost his lover. He didn't think he could handle losing the ability to look at his handwriting and remember everyday, too. And he knew there was no convincing his father that he shouldn't take them away merely for the sake of his happiness, so he tried to think fast.

"But then I will have nothing to study—and that's what you originally wanted Francis here for, wasn't it? To teach me French! I still need to learn—"

"These are nothing you haven't learned already, and if _reading them to yourself over and over_ each night haven't let you memorize them, then I don't see how any more would help," his father said firmly, crumpling the parchment more and turning his attention back to the guards, completely apathetic about Arthur's visible heartbrokenness.

_No—no, you can't take them…!_ Arthur had to yell it in his mind, for he was horribly aware of the extra punishment he would receive, were he to put up a fight about it. He knew he would be sent down to the priest for more torture that he'd already endured his time of today. The thought numbed him, and he didn't want to go through more of that.

But he hated that there was nothing he could do. He hated watching while the guards went through everything, even though there really wasn't anything left to find—except for his ring. When he remembered it, he clenched his fist and tried to hide it but be as inconspicuous as possible about it. If he lost _that_, as well…

He could honestly say that he would either kill someone or be killed before he allowed that ring to be taken off of him.

"The chambers are clear," one guard said minutes later.

"Nothing else," another one added.

Once they received a nod from the King, they all nodded back in confirmation and filed straight out of the room without putting anything back in its place—one, however, stayed and grabbed Arthur by both arms so that he was restricted from moving at all. The King also remained, and without saying anything, he strode over to the desk and held the crumpled stack of parchment over the open flame of the candle, then threw the flaming papers on the ground for them to be consumed by the fire completely.

What was left of Arthur's heart continued to break as he was practically forced to watch what he had left of Francis burn up and turn to ashes. The guard wasn't holding his head or making him look at it, but in his efforts to get out of the man's grip and go stomp out the fire to save what he could of the parchment, he had to look at it anyway.

Within a minute, the fire was gone because there was nothing left to burn. The guard let go of him, nearly dropping him to the ground, and he started to leave along with the King, in silence. Right as they reached the door, though—

"You can't burn my memories," Arthur spat, scowling heavily with the beginnings of tears at the bottom of his eyes.

His father stopped in his tracks for just long enough to turn to him and say smoothly, "I can try."

* * *

Arthur fancied himself very lucky that he was still in possession of the ring Francis had given him, especially after three full weeks of Francis being gone.

But of course, it was difficult to be more than briefly or vaguely aware of being lucky for any reason, as hardly a second went by that Arthur was anything but miserable or furious. Any happiness he felt was either of a sadistic nature or when he briefly forgot that Francis was gone while remembering something about him.

It was never there when he woke up, for nearly every night brought him nightmares—which he was truly used to by now, but that didn't make them good. It never came if he was near any of his family unless something even relatively unfortunate happened to his brother or father. And it certainly never came in the couple hours in the afternoon each day when he was restrained in a chair in the Church.

The priest had recently given up on nearly drowning Arthur several times in succession and had moved on to bloodletting. Now his mind was numb each evening for a different reason—it was physically difficult to think because of the blood loss.

From what he knew of the medical sciences, the release of blood was supposed to get illnesses or demons out of the body, and so he couldn't see how this was supposed to help. It didn't make sense to him that the priest would think bloodletting would "cure" someone of what he thought was a sin—even for someone with the Church's skewed views.

So he guessed that the man merely thought that the pain itself was going to make him succumb.

But he still refused to cry out in pain, and he refused to give up. All he had to do to make all this be over was say "I've seen where I was wrong; I don't love Francis anymore," but there was no chance of him doing that. Sometimes the words were right on the tip of his tongue because he felt he could endure it no longer, but even then, he held them back. He wasn't going to lie about his love for Francis for the sake of his own comfort, for that would be giving up everything—and it would have been the least princely thing for him to do, in actuality.

There was a point, though, that Arthur felt his consciousness become very low, and the blood dripping down his limp arm and off the tip of his finger was somehow rather loud in his ears. He could feel his heart straining to pump more blood through his veins, and he just knew that he wasn't going to be able to handle it much longer. He could have just said it then—but he wasn't all too sure that he wanted to. If he were to die like this, that wouldn't be so bad.

His eyes were half-closed, and his consciousness nearly depleted. Arthur very slowly turned his head to face the door rather than the priest, and he was only vaguely aware of the priest's questions that sounded like an echo somehow, and then the pressure on his arm of gauze being wrapped around the cut as usual. He could still see and hear, but just so, as his father walked in through the door, looked at him, and said, "No, this will not do…. I want him cured of his sin, Reverend, not _dead_—how is he supposed to marry Gwenllian if he's dead or incapacitated?" If Arthur weren't so out of it, he'd have been able to sense the sharp, biting tone his father had, as well. "Either return to the normal methods or find a new one that won't kill him. For now, he'll have to remain in the castle for a couple days so he can regain his blood and have enough to function."

"My apologies, your Highness, but I believe that pushing him to near death will allow him to return to life a new, clean man. Do not take your trust out of the house of God so quickly."

"Ah—well… I see. I hope your experiment works, then."

That was the first time that Arthur spent even a full day without being tortured since the first time. He was carried back on his father's horse and taken immediately to bed, and then the court physician gave him some herbs as well as normal food to help replenish the blood in his body. And he was still hardly aware of much at all for a while.

Although when he could think at least semi-properly, he thought to himself that the faeries would have been able to heal him instantly. And then he started missing the faeries because this was also the first time that he'd spent so long away from them since he was a child.

He could have sworn that he saw Tinker, Cherami, and Lilley in his room and even talked to them at some point, but he was fairly sure it was a hallucination afterward: Faeries couldn't travel too far away from their homes—or at least from nature. The main reason that he was sure it was a hallucination, though, was that he also could have sworn he saw Francis sitting in there with him. And he was absolutely sure that _that_ wasn't real.

In the next two days, when Arthur felt mostly fine again, he felt no difference in his feelings for Francis. But of course he hadn't expected anything to happen… the priest could still not erase memories, after all. He just hoped the man wouldn't try anything that caused severe brain damage later.

Once the King discovered that his son was alright again, the torture resumed. And Arthur still didn't break. He figured, soon, that he just needed to find something to be his happiness, and that would make it easier to endure all of this. Simply thinking about Francis wasn't enough, but he found himself trying to recapture his lover's essence on parchment during the hours he had to himself without interruptions.

He'd never been much of an artist, but that was mostly because he'd always had different things to do, as a Prince. Royalty was discouraged from taking up such silly hobbies—but he found that it was somewhat of a hidden talent for him. It wasn't narcissism speaking when he absentmindedly sketched out Francis's face in ink and honestly thought that it looked very much like him, later.

Smiling slightly and inhaling deeply, Arthur stroked his thumb over the ink-Francis's cheek and decided that this was how he would hold on. He would continue to draw Francis and be able to feel, if only briefly, like he was there each time; and he would hide the drawings well despite being quite sure that his father wasn't going to order another raid on his chambers. And then he would be able to come back to them and look through them, and then draw more and increase his skill each time that he returned from a meal or some sort of weapons practice or a hunt or a session of failed torture. Picking up a quill and a bottle of ink would almost immediately relieve his numbness of mind, and the torture would be so far in the past that it would be worth it.

Sometimes Arthur felt, for a second, that he was weak and pathetic for feeling almost completely lost without the presence of a single person—especially since men weren't _supposed_ to need the company of another person to feel whole—but then he realized that he had never been truly happy in his life before Francis. He'd never had friends other than faeries, and he'd been growing up under a strict set of rules for what he was supposed to be, and he'd known that he wouldn't be able to get out of those. And then it made sense to him that he had every reason to be miserable, and that it wasn't weak of him in the least. He was rather strong, in fact, for holding on so long.

* * *

On the first day of April, Gwenllian and Llewellyn of Wales arrived at the castle gates. It established a horrible air of finality for Arthur, for this was the beginning of the month that Gwenllian was to stay in England prior to the marriage.

_The marriage._ Of course, Arthur hadn't forgotten about it, but he'd avoided thinking about it. He wanted to marry Gwen even less than before, and he loathed to think of what their married life would be like. Would his father continue to confine him to the castle?—And what would Gwen and her father think of that? Arthur was fairly sure that they had no idea about Francis, so they couldn't look down on him for "sinning" and call off the marriage.

He was half-tempted to let it slip, but he knew that his father might literally kill him if he did. Especially because of a short "talk" with him before they'd arrived that told him exactly that. But if Gwenllian were to somehow hear about it through Peter or someone else, he wouldn't be at fault.

"Did you have a safe journey, my Lady?" he asked when he saw her, his voice and his smile coming out forced. He refrained from touching her at all, though he knew he was meant to take her hand lightly. There was only so much happiness he could fake.

"Please call me Gwen—we are to be married in a month, after all, Arthur," she told him, a friendly smile on her face. She didn't seem at all put-off by his lack of gestures—but then she didn't really seem extremely enthusiastic to become his wife, either.

_Wife._ The word sounded disgusting in his mind. He didn't want a wife. Even if there was an actual option of marrying Francis, he wouldn't want to call him a wife, either.

Trying to be just polite enough to get by, he smiled just a tick wider and gave a sharp nod. "Of course. Let me show you to your chambers… Gwen."

As he led her up the stairs and through the corridors, it occurred to him that this was the first woman he'd ever called by her first name. He still didn't like it. This made their relationship more personal, and he didn't want to be personal with her.

At least the room that the King had assigned her was far away from Arthur's—as was tradition. A woman's chambers just couldn't be close to her fiancé's.

Gwenllian's handmaiden, whom Arthur had hardly noticed before, set down her things on the bed, and Arthur didn't hesitate to tell them that supper should be ready soon and that he would come retrieve them when it was. He was relieved to leave, but he still had to go back downstairs with his father to speak more with Llewellyn.

"Excellent news, Arthur," was what he was greeted with by his father when he stepped back into the main hall. "Llewellyn has told me that his daughter happens to be fluent in French."

The King paused, seemingly to approach his son further before continuing, but Arthur was sure that it was much more in order to let it sink in and make his heart stop with pain and almost fear of what he was about to say.

"And since your previous tutor unfortunately had to leave, Lady Gwenllian can continue your French lessons. And at a much more professional rate, I'm sure. It's rather unconventional, to be taught by your wife, but convenient nevertheless, wouldn't you say?"

The look on his father's face was just daring him to protest. But with Llewellyn right there, that would have been rather unwise. So he forced another smile.

"Of course. I'm grateful."

"Yes—much more conventional than being taught by a peasant, anyway," his father laughed, and Llewellyn laughed slightly with him.

_No, no, no, no, no._

But Arthur still forced a smile, however small and incapable of hiding his pain it was.

* * *

Gwenllian took the spot that Francis normally would have had at meals, and Llewellyn took the empty seat that normally sat between Arthur and his father. They both tried to gradually get to know Arthur more, and he couldn't blame them, but he still hated it.

The French lessons picked up, but it was not the same at all. Arthur didn't want Gwenllian to sit in Francis's chair, he didn't want her to light the candle and begin writing on the parchment like Francis used to, and he didn't want to hear French in her voice. This was Francis's job, and she was unrightfully just _taking_ it.

Granted, he was learning French again. Taking in knowledge wasn't something he could really _refuse _to do, and if he didn't pay attention or expressed the fact that he didn't want to learn it from her, she would have known that something was wrong. But it definitely didn't feel the same to have her as a French tutor. Something felt horribly off even aside from the bare fact that she wasn't Francis.

Probably that he didn't fight with her.

Getting along with her and not being mean in any way was somewhat difficult for him, but because she didn't say a single bad thing about him (not to mention the fact that she was a woman), she was not his equal in any sense. Talking to her didn't even fulfill any boredom, let alone happiness.

And still, every day, Arthur was dragged to the Church. Obviously the King didn't believe that he was anywhere near getting over Francis—not that he'd tried to say so, and so he told Llewellyn and his daughter that Arthur had daily training with weapons and combat to cover up the fact that his son liked men.

Each day, he also still returned to his chambers and spent his time with a drawn Francis, imagining he was there and staring out his window and thoughtfully twisting the ring that meant more to him than any wedding ring ever would. That much hadn't changed.

Gwenllian was becoming rather neglected as far as courting was supposed to go, but Arthur's father hadn't urged him to make an effort to get closer to her than he had to, and he certainly wasn't going to do so of his own accord. The woman hadn't even said anything, so he supposed it didn't matter.

The weeks passed, and nothing changed except Arthur's dread, as far as the marriage went. Llewellyn had to return to Wales and leave his daughter behind after merely a week, though, as he didn't trust his Lords to take care of his kingdom without him for too long.

His resolve eventually started truly weakening, though. And his father seemed to be becoming crueler by the day—sometimes in ways that didn't even seem like efforts to break him. He'd decided that the seating arrangement during meals would be switched around now—he wanted Peter next to Arthur and Gwenllian across from him. He'd said it was more proper this way, as far as status in the royal family went, but it was clearly on purpose. Arthur had never been forced to sit next to Peter before—only Allistor, before he'd left.

But no one else complained; though Peter did whine a little when he wasn't in the dining hall.

Soon, they were at exactly one week before the first of May and the day of the wedding, which also happened to be Easter Sunday. Arthur's dread was worse than ever, and he couldn't force himself to calm down during the church celebrations. He didn't think he'd ever be able to step inside a church and feel normal again, really.

The cooks prepared a feast, as usual. The knights and Lords from surrounding lands were invited to eat and celebrate, just as it was with other holidays of the Church. The main difference was that, this time, Arthur didn't have a choice but to attend and stay the entire time.

And of course, his father didn't let up on teasing him for much of the time. At least he didn't say anything about the fact that Arthur was still shaking from what he'd just gone through with the priest.

Sometime into supper, Arthur was startled by a sudden, smaller hand grabbing his wrist. Jerking his head to the left, he saw that Peter was trying to get a better look at his hand—more accurately, his ring.

"You didn't really find this on the ground, did you?"

The smoothness in his little brother's voice was almost more disconcerting than the fact of what he was saying. Arthur's throat was suddenly too swollen for him to talk, and his eyes widened slightly in fear. It didn't occur to him that this was something that shouldn't have been happening at the table.

"…It's none of your business," he finally said, pulling his hand away. He then gave him a glare that said, _If you tell Father, I swear I will murder you in your sleep._

Peter seemed more smug than fazed by that at all.

"I saw you two," he whispered, looking down casually at his own food while Arthur froze in his seat. "Months ago. I saw you kissing him, from my tower window. Before Father did any of this."

It suddenly baffled Arthur that everyone else could go on merrily and loudly enjoying their Easter supper while he was simply finding it difficult not to shake horribly with all the mixed emotions he had. Eyes set straight at Peter, and his jaw clenched, he said lowly, "Did you tell anyone?"

"I told a servant." Peter still seemed not to care.

And then it all clicked, and when Arthur's eyes shot back from his father to his brother, they had the anger of a thousand suns in them.

"So… so you—_you_ are the reason for all this…. That servant told Father, and now Francis is gone… because of _you_."

It was nearly impossible to keep his voice even. He couldn't contain the hatred he felt for Peter at the moment—and it then occurred to him that he really didn't want to. In the next second, Arthur was shouting profanities and all things similar to "THIS IS _YOUR_ FAULT" at Peter and throwing as hard as punches as was possible while sitting. Without looking around or even paying attention to the fact that the hall had gone silent, he knew that everyone was staring at them and most of them were very confused.

All Arthur's inhibitions were gone. He didn't care; he now knew the reason why he had lost the most important person in his life. He knew he was attacking his only brother like an animal, and he didn't care. He heard the sound of his father standing up from his chair to get over there and pull him off of Peter, but it didn't quite register to him until he heard the loud _thunk_ afterward.

That was when every person in the hall turned their attention to the head of the table, and there was a mutual gasp followed by a couple shrieks. Arthur even let go of Peter.

Glass in hand, the contents of it now on the floor, the King sat slumped-over in his chair. His eyes were creepily half-open, and his skin was already growing pale. The Queen lifted up his wrist and dropped it.

Peter didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Arthur couldn't even bring himself to care about the details of how and why this had happened yet. What _did_ matter to him was that the King—no, the _former_ King—was dead.

* * *

**Bet you didn't see that one coming! Alright, you probably did. I hate to use the common tropes, but it works for my story. **

**Also, this story is 6 away from 100 reviews, and I am extremely happy about this. I'm so glad my story has gotten such good feedback, and once again, I want to thank all of you for reviewing and/or following. All I need left is to become a famous writer in the fandom and have people cosplay for my story. /shot**

**Okay, I'm not gonna put too much hope into that. I'll save the fame for George DeVailer's Vera Verse. And Gutters. But I would probably die if that happened. ^_^'**

**Anyway, you guys should review. And tell me what you thought, as usual. Get me at least up to 100 reviews, guys! :D**


	17. King Arthur

**Holy woah, guys. 15 new reviews since the last chapter. HOW THIS HAPPEN. **

**In other news, one of my amazing readers wrote a poem for this story. I just- A POEM, GUYS. OMG. She gave me permission to post it here, too, so...**

**If love must be a sin,**  
**then I shan't be a saint.**  
**If it is wrong to lay**  
**with the one I love**  
**as one is supposed**  
**to lie with a woman,**  
**then I shan't be right.**  
**If I am to be tortured,**  
**hated, forced into**  
**another, more 'sacred',**  
**church-approved marriage,**  
**then so be it.**  
**And my love will not die**  
**simply because he is not here**  
**to love me as I love him.**  
**The gods, my father, the church**  
**can test my loyalty to him.**  
**They can try to dissolve**  
**the love that has grown here**  
**in my once empty heart.**  
**It will not work. **  
**I refuse to let it.**  
**For if love must be a sin,**  
**then by God,**  
**I shan't be a saint. **

**Yeah. Amazing, right? Her tumblr url is Just-eat-the-damn-scones (in case you want to know). **

* * *

All remained silent as Arthur slowly, almost unconsciously, stood up from his seat and stepped away from the table. He could practically hear the hearts of everyone in the hall beating at the same, irregular pace—or that might have just been his. Each of his small steps seemed to echo in the otherwise noiseless hall until he stopped, right at his father's side.

Still without even a heavy or at all audible breath, Arthur bent down to get a closer look at his father's face. The man's creepily open eyes held no light, and his mouth sagged open so that a bit of saliva dripped out the corner. His face was pale enough that, if his chest was still moving to prove he was breathing, a physician would have pronounced him ill and soon to die.

Then, with a quick snap of his neck over to the table, he looked to the goblet that the King's pale hand was still clasping onto. There were small puddles of wine surrounding it from where it had spilled when his father had collapsed, including on his own clothes. Arthur just looked at that for a few long seconds, letting it work into his mind what must have happened.

The only question was _who_. Someone had to have poisoned the King, and it hadn't been him—so _who_? Did some servant hold a grudge deep enough for murder?

Arthur then realized that he truly didn't care. It was a burning curiosity, but the only thing that would have come out of knowing the answer was that he would thank the person who'd poisoned the wine.

Yes, a million thanks for the person who'd fixed the problem in his life. But he wasn't going to express that utter joy right here, in front of his family and all the servants and knights and Lords—or else they would think that he'd been the one to poison his father. And of course such a thing was highly probable to anyone who knew about Francis—and although he knew of many sons throughout history who had killed their fathers, most of whom had had no consequences come to them, he would still have rather not been accused.

Instead, Arthur made sure to look and sound as grave, yet not distraught, as possible. And frankly, it wasn't all too difficult, since he was still in shock himself.

"…I am King now," he said quietly, and slowly, listening to himself say those words. Even when he'd practically accepted the fact that the marriage was going to happen no matter how much he'd hated it, he'd never thought he would end up saying that one day. He still wasn't sure whether or not he wanted it. For all it was worth, though, this was probably the most convenient possible thing that could have happened.

Gathering himself—inhaling deeply and standing up tall, that is—Arthur tore his eyes from his deceased father and turned around to face the table. He felt suddenly self-conscious, as he'd never spoken to so many people at once before, nor had he ever been in this position, but he quickly forced himself to power through it.

"I am unfortunate to say," he began, keeping his voice loud and even over the whole of the hall, "that my father, Edward Kirkland, Head of the House of Kirkland and King of England… has been poisoned. With his sudden and tragic death, it is my responsibility to rise and take the throne. While I cannot take the crown formally until a coronation has taken place, I hereby announce myself… as Arthur Kirkland, King of England."

There were another couple moments of pure silence. The only one who looked truly sad about the death was his mother, but he supposed that was because she was the only one who was all that close to him—and everyone else must have still been in shock, anyway. Peter was staring at him with somewhat horror and anger, and Gwenllian seemed almost impressed amongst her shock. She was, in fact, the first one to raise her goblet.

"To the memory of Edward, the future of the kingdom, and King Arthur," she said, though not quite cheerfully, as that would have obviously been in bad taste.

Oh, she really had no idea…. Arthur couldn't help but find that almost funnily ironic. He knew that none of the knights would have done that, as many of them probably suspected him of the murder in the first place, but they all followed suit anyways. He watched as everyone drunk to his name and, despite his lack of true desire of being King, felt very proud. It was part of being a Kirkland, he supposed.

_King Arthur._ The name rung out in his mind just as proudly, bearing the importance and spirit that the same King of legend had. He rather liked the sound of it.

But that wasn't nearly as important as what exactly he knew he was going to do as his first order of business. Well, aside from following the basics, at least.

"It is clear to me that there is a traitor in our midst," he announced once there was silence again, as he realized it would be very bad for his image if he simply forgot to mention it. "I want the guards and the knights to find the person responsible—but first, I believe a proper funeral for my father is in order."

He didn't even try to appear sad or even morose as he gave all the orders and sent out for a priest. The sun was already set, but had everything gone normally, the festivities would not be even nearly over. So it wasn't unreasonable even under normal standards.

Truly, the only reason he wanted the funeral to take place right then was a selfish one. Arthur couldn't have cared less whether or not his father had a proper burial—he really couldn't have brought himself to care about his father's death if he _tried_. He'd hated that man so much when he was living—and hell, he still hated him. Now that the man was gone, it was just peace.

Well, not quite yet.

"Arthur… I believe this makes you the youngest King to ever rule these lands, am I correct?" said Gwenllian, stopping at his side as he watched the priest he'd entrusted with his father's crown carry it away. The funeral had ended, but many were still paying their respects to the former King's casket. Arthur's expression remained stone-like, and his body still and not turning to look at her.

"Not entirely," he told her, his voice dull to hide his impatience. "King Edmund was my age when he took the throne, about three centuries ago."

"Oh. Well—nearly, then. But… now that you are King, what's the first thing you shall do?"

First orders of business were quite the big deal. It would have been a giddily exciting choice to make, too, if Arthur hadn't already had his decision made before his father had even died. And of course the official orders of preparing a funeral didn't count.

Rather than showing any signs of thinking about his answer, Arthur simply turned to Gwenllian. He didn't turn to speak to _her_, though—he'd seen his mother in his peripheral vision, clearly waiting for the same answer, along with many of the guards and knights who seemed to be avoiding getting too close to him now.

He locked eyes with his mother and, with a determined look, said, "I'm going to find him."

With that, Arthur spun around on his heel and headed for the exit that led to the stairs. His back now turned on all of them, he departed with his final words of the evening: "I ride first thing at dawn. And I ride alone."

* * *

It wasn't until the next morning that it really occurred to Arthur how confused Gwenllian must have been. And she was really a nice person—she didn't deserve the confusion, nor to be in the position she was, which Arthur had decided the evening before, during his father's funeral. But he wasn't exactly the most thoughtful person. It didn't fill him with guilt to leave her in a position of being used and practically useless otherwise.

As he kicked the side of his horse and left the castle, he simply assumed that his mother would explain it to her, anyway. At this point, he didn't care at all whether she knew. The only thing he cared about, now, was finding the man his father had torn away from him,

It still seemed rather surreal that everything was over, though. That there would be no more hours of torture in the Church and no more time spent away from his beloved, and that he would indeed have Francis back. He'd thought that it would take much longer—to the point where finding him again would be almost hopeless. How long could one live on their own when forced to travel through the forests that surrounded the village and extended beyond the Thames?

_No, no, I shan't think like that,_ he told himself, suddenly very scared in spite of it. He had to keep hoping until he could no longer hope for anything. Hope had been the only thing keeping him sane for the past few months, and by God, he wasn't going to give that up now.

The peasants in the village all stared as he passed through, though his ride through town wasn't quite short enough for him to see them and know for sure. He just knew they were staring because they all must have been rather surprised to see him. He hadn't been in town in months, since the same time that Francis had been evicted from his home and exiled—which of course they all must have known about. Arthur wondered if anyone had put the information together and guessed correctly. He also profoundly did not care.

Arthur kept his focus straight ahead as he rode, even through the forest. His only goal was straight ahead, and there was nothing for him on this side of the Thames.

One hour and some minutes later, he caught sight of the glimmering river in the distance. Keeping straightforward on the path, he led his horse for several minutes before reaching the bank. At that, he decided to stop and let his horse drink from the river before moving on. It was a grand river—no less the girth of the castle's dining hall, from where he stood. The Kings of England and the surrounding kingdoms had used it as a military barrier for centuries—long before England had been united, even. Crossing this would be an accomplishment, indeed.

Once he crossed it, though, Francis could be anywhere on the other side. Hell, he might not even have stayed in England. What if he had gone to Spain?—or was he even allowed to be there? His exile might have included Spain along with France, after all…. He really just didn't know. Arthur could only estimate that it would take him about a week to find him. If he was still alive, anyway.

_No, stop that._

Fighting back the jolting pain in his heart from that thought, Arthur pulled the reigns and started riding down the bank—until he found a bridge. Because there was no way he was going to cross that beast of a river any other way.

But of course that was where he met his first obstacle. He really wasn't surprised, anyway: Standing in front of the white (or it used to be white, at least) Roman-built bridge was a man in an age-worn tunic and trousers. The man bore a beard that was halfway between moderately groomed and looking like maggots might have been living in it, and it seemed all he had with him was a rock to sit on a few feet to his left and a sword at his hip, slid in without a sheath and through a makeshift rope belt. He was also folding his arms in a way that made it obvious he wasn't just going to let Arthur through without—

"Twenty-five silver pence fer crossing, sir."

In spite of his hurry to find Francis, Arthur didn't automatically reach for his money pouch, but instead frowned deeply. "That's an absolutely ridiculous price to cross this bridge."

"Well, yeh look a lot richer than most tryin' ter cross," said the man, smiling smugly.

"I doubt you can even count to twenty-five," Arthur grumbled, plunging his hand into his pouch anyway and fishing out a gold coin because he simply didn't want to waste more time counting out twenty-five coins.

As he tossed the coin down to the man running the bridge, who caught it with a gleeful expression, a question occurred to him. So he remained where he was rather than moving on as the man stepped aside.

"Hold on—do you remember a man with long hair, lighter than mine, crossing this bridge more than two months ago?" Arthur asked the question with such urgency that the peasant man nearly jumped back.

"…Maybe," he said after a second, and with a tone that made it obvious he definitely remembered. Goddamn sneaky peasant. "Whatsit to yeh, rich man?"

Alright, that was enough. Arthur didn't need to give in to a dirty peasant's demands. Lowering his brow even more, he straightened himself up on his steed and said coldly, "You are speaking to your _King_, peasant. Now tell me, do you have any idea where that man headed after crossing the bridge?"

But the peasant merely raised his eyebrows and laughed.

"Nice try, but I won't fall for summat like that…. 'M not quite that stupid. Yeh don't even look to be of age! And the King's crossed here, an' I've met him! Yeh're not him."

"The former King has died. I am his son, Arthur, the new King," Arthur said irritably, finding that he already hated this man. "You claim not to be stupid, and yet you don't see the royal crest I bear on my tunic. I will ask once again, _tell me what you know_." Okay, it wasn't exactly asking.

The peasant ignored his question—demand—again and instead widened his eyes into a wicked smile. "Oh, well ain't this my lucky day! Whether yeh're telling the truth about yer father bein' dead or not, yeh're still worth quite the ransom, _Arthur_."

It was stupid of him to say all that before doing anything, as it gave Arthur a head start to pull the reigns and make his horse jump back, but the man still managed to pull out his sword and swing it fast enough to nick the horse's legs. She gave a loud whinny and reared up on her hind legs so far that Arthur couldn't hold on. He landed on his side with a loud "_Umph!_" and all the breath knocked out of him, and he almost didn't register the man coming at him in time to unsheathe his own sword and block him.

He was struggling for no more than three seconds before he managed to push the man away enough to stand up and fight back properly. The peasant wasn't horrible at swordfighting, but still only good enough to hold back someone only moderately skilled in the art. If there were four more of him, maybe Arthur would have had trouble. The only reason he wasn't finished and done with it at this point was because the other man had had an unfair advantage at the beginning.

A thrust block and two slices later, the peasant's sword was on the ground. Arthur had the peasant on the ground, too, with a jab to his knees.

"I was going to call you a worthless pile of horse shite," he said through gritted teeth holding his sword to the peasant's neck, "but you're not even good enough to be that much. You're stupid enough to have a go at me when you're alone, at the very least. Are you going to tell me what you know about the man I mentioned, now?"

The peasant man crossed his eyes to look down at the sword and raised both hands in surrender and fear.

"I—um… I—I think—he didn't say anything, but I think I saw him go left-ways after crossin'… yer Highness."

Arthur considered the trembling man for a second before saying, "Hm—well, now I know which way not to go," slashing his throat, and kicking the man's body into the river, where it immediately started floating down the current. He didn't want to be a merciless or cruel King, but if he'd let that man live, he might have found someone else and told them that the King was riding through—which would have put him in more danger. And he couldn't have that.

_Besides,_ he thought as he frustratedly shoved his sword back into his sheath and finally started walking across the bridge, _now I have to go find my bloody horse because of him, too._

* * *

He didn't find his horse until a few hours later. Arthur had already stopped at a small pub in between then and asked everybody inside (without revealing his identity, of course) if they might know about a man with exactly Francis's description—but no luck there. Not necessarily because no one had any answers, but because a good deal of the men spoke in such thick accents that Arthur couldn't understand them for the life of him.

When he found his steed, she was standing outside of another pub—it appeared someone had found her and decided to keep her. But seeing as she was a rather intelligent horse, she recognized Arthur immediately and started pawing the ground with her hooves. Her knees seemed to be alright and not really bleeding, too.

He had to leave her outside while he questioned the men in that bar, too, though. And those men were far more understandable, but they were just as cheap and huge pieces of shite as the bridgekeeper. Deceased bridgekeeper, that was.

"What d'you want him for—collecting taxes? Is he a rogue? A runaway prisoner? Because we've got lots of those around here, rich man."

He wondered if every peasant was going to call him that.

Not wanting to cause a scene or even get into an argument, though (he certainly wasn't going to tell him what Francis was to him, either), Arthur simply pulled out a gold coin and wordlessly pushed it over. The peasant looked at it—in shock?—for a moment before taking it and putting it away in the pouch at his belt, then slammed down his tankard with a thud.

"Yeah, I mighta seen him here. He sounds familiar. I think he asked if he could work here, but the owner laughed at him—couple o' brutes picked him up an' threw him out. Awfully easy, too. The man wasn't any bigger'n you…."

He took another drink of… whatever was in the tankard, and Arthur had a feeling that it wouldn't be long before the man was too drunk to give him any more good answers. So he took advantage of his remaining time with one last question:

"And he hasn't returned to this pub since then?"

"What idiot would? He'd just get laughed at if he did…. Hah." Smiling drunkenly, the man took another gulp, and that's when Arthur decided to stand up.

"Thank you, then," he said as he started to leave—but then he thought to ask, "So, are you drinking to forget, or to celebrate?" His curiosity was piqued about a man who was already getting drunk so early; he couldn't help it.

"Celebrate!" he said cheerfully, waving his tankard and letting some of its contents slosh over the edge. "Found a horse walking on its own earlier, an' now it's mine, an' I felt too lucky not to go have a pint or two…."

"Ah. Congratulations." Arthur tried not to laugh as he left the pub and untied his horse, at which he muttered to himself, "He'll be drinking to forget later tonight…."

* * *

Over the rest of the day, Arthur rode through another village and still more forest. He'd thought that perhaps Francis was living there, and so he walked through the village to search for him and ask around. No one could tell him anything about him.

So either Francis hadn't even been there, or the villagers just didn't want to give him answers. Arthur sighed and moved on.

That evening, his fruitless search brought him to an inn, which he decided to stay at. He had originally planned to keep travelling throughout the night—not even the dark was going to keep him from finding Francis—but the men in that inn warned him of a dangerous band of thieves. And there would be no peace in finding Francis if he was dead before it happened.

After a not-so-tasty dinner of some unidentified meat drowned in sauce, Arthur retired to the room he'd been given. It wasn't any more than he could expect from such a poor inn: The bed was small and not all that comfortable—much like Francis's.

Upon thinking of that, he couldn't bring himself to do anything but just look down at the bed for a minute. He wondered if Francis's bed had been taken out of his home—if it had been ransacked after he'd been forced out of it…. And he remembered the first night they'd spent together, and what it had started. And how that had ended.

_But—no… it hasn't ended permanently. I'm _going_ to find him._

Arthur didn't bother taking his clothes off before lying down in the stiff bed. He was too busy twisting the ring on his finger and whispering promises of finding Francis into the empty room to fall asleep too quickly, anyway.

* * *

Arthur had to remind himself several times that his search had really only just begun, and he hadn't traveled that far at all. Otherwise, he kept feeling that he had already failed and that he was riding a hopeless journey.

At least he'd succeeded so far in keeping it a secret that he was the King or even of the royal family, in case anyone like that bridgekeeper came along. And he _did _see a few rather thuggish men come into the inn that morning…. That was when he left, as he didn't want to get in the middle of a bar fight.

There were still no signs of Francis on the path he took throughout the day. He wasn't in the villages, and as far as Arthur could tell, he'd never even passed through them. It was all starting to make him panic and think that Francis might actually be dead.

"No—_no_—_NO_—HE'S NOT DEAD!" he shouted, punctuating each word with a pound of his fist to a tree. His horse was drinking from a pond, and he was standing by, trying his hardest not to truly go into panic. He was failing.

It was impossible to fully convince himself that Francis was still alive, and that hurt immensely. The probability of him being dead seemed to grow by the hour, and Arthur wanted desperately just to know—just to be given a _sign_ that he was still alive. He was leaning against a tree by his forearms, his knuckles nearly bleeding from hitting the rough bark of the tree so many times, sweating from the energy he'd exerted and wanting to cry.

_"What's wrong?"_

The voice startled him—but he quickly realized that he was in no danger, as the voice clearly belonged to a woman. When he turned around, though, he also saw that the voice didn't even belong to a human.

He hadn't seen a faerie in such a long time… he was almost glad just to talk to one. She had black hair that fell past her waist and what looked like flower petals for wings, and she looked genuinely curious about his distress.

"I'm… looking for someone," he told her, trying to keep his voice even. "His name is Francis. He's got long blonde hair, and lots of stubble, and this annoying French accent—"

_"Why do you call it annoying if you love him?"_ the faerie asked suddenly, startling Arthur again.

Oh, that was right. Faeries could sense those sorts of things. Arthur blinked and opened his mouth in silence, unable to think of the answer too quickly.

"…I—it's… a habit, I suppose. Do you know where he is?—Is he alive? I—_please_, I need to find him."

"_We don't pay attention to the lives of the humans around us, so I cannot tell you. But you shouldn't cry simply because you don't know."_

She didn't stick around long enough for him to say anything else. Arthur stared at the spot where she'd flown away from for a few seconds before muttering "What a help _she_ was," and heading back to his horse.

From there, it was mostly more lengths of forest that he passed. There were clearings here and there, some of which held small houses that he approached to see if Francis might have been there or if the people who lived there knew anything. They didn't. But one of the men tried to pay him to marry their daughter. Which he immediately but politely refused. (He could definitely see why the man was so desperate, though…. She might have been the best-looking if you put her in a pigpen.)

By nightfall, Arthur was nowhere near an inn that he could stay at. His only choice, he supposed, was to either keep riding through the night or set up a rudimentary shelter. He remembered the warnings of the thieves around the area, so he chose the second.

He also learned that he was not very good at making shelter. As a King and formerly a Prince, he'd never had need for such skill, so it wasn't surprising. But it was still frustrating, so he quickly gave up on trying to actually make anything and instead just decided to sleep in a tree.

At least he knew how to start a fire. _That should keep animals away,_ he figured. He wasn't so sure about people, though. This was a situation that required him to rely at least somewhat on luck.

His horse was tied to the tree, and Arthur was just about to climb up from the horse's back to one of the higher branches when he heard a rustle in the surrounding forest. He was startled enough to jump slightly, and he started looking around frantically for the source of the noise. The main problem was that it was almost too dark to see—if not for the fire and the moonlight, anyway, so he couldn't see anything.

If a human had made that noise, though, he wanted to go find them before they had a chance to come find him. So he slid off the horse's back and immediately drew his sword, then set off through the further trees.

Each step he took caused a few twigs to snap, as well as leaves to rustle as they were crushed under his boot. Arthur was constantly and warily looking around, his sword in hand and ready to swing, and his eyes open wide and taking in as much as they could in this dark. He hoped that if anyone was out there, they couldn't hear his heart beating so loudly.

And then, without warning, a pair of arms grabbed him from the narrow dirt path he was on and pulled him quickly through a small gap between bushes. Arthur let out a frightened gasp and immediately twisted to slice at his attacker with his sword, but his arm froze when he was suddenly able to make out that familiar face.

His sword arm shook and pulled back on its own, and the sword fell to the ground with a dull clang. "_F-Francis?_"

He didn't wait for an answer—he didn't need one. That was definitely him. At once, Arthur stepped forward and threw his arms around Francis's back, and he was holding on like he was afraid to let go again and burying his face in his neck, and he was crying. And Francis had his arms around Arthur just as fast, and they were both whispering "Oh my God, _Mon dieu_" with utter relief.

Francis pulled back enough to take Arthur's face in his hands and start kissing it all over, and suddenly he could feel that he was crying too, with how wet his kisses were. He stopped only long enough to say breathily, "_I missed you so much—_"

Until Arthur grabbed hold of Francis's face, too, and held tightly as he pressed a long, hard kiss to his mouth—and then another, which was slightly shorter, and then a few more short ones in quick succession. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed kissing him, and how it had been so long he'd nearly forgotten what it felt like.

With that, he pulled back so that he could hug him tightly again—and it seemed that Francis had the same idea, for they both tried to lift the other and spin him around in pure joy at the same time, and it resulted in a bit of awkward stumbling and both of them nearly falling over together. They were both still too relieved and happy to acknowledge it with more than a laugh as Arthur pulled back again and pressed his forehead to Francis's, though.

"Arthur…," Francis breathed, clutching at the side of his face, "'Ow are you 'ere?" His breath shook, as he still couldn't believe what was happening.

"My father died," Arthur said just as breathily, but with an obvious tone of happiness in giving him the news. "I'm… I'm King now. So I came to look for you. You're no longer in exile, Francis…. I thought it would take much longer to find you, too, and I started thinking you might have been dead—"

"I'm 'ere, Arthur." Francis heard his voice getting more and more broken, so he'd felt the need to say that and give him a soft kiss in reassurance. "I'm alive. It's fine." At the same time, he was in awe and shock that Arthur was no longer the Prince, but the King. It seemed… everything was fine now. It was a miracle. It had to have been the work of an angel of sorts, for this to happen for them.

Nodding, Arthur clung to Francis more tightly. Just to make sure this was all real. "Wait—why are you out here at night?—Where have you been staying this whole time?"

At that, Francis hesitated slightly to answer. It was a good thing the darkness hid the hesitation in his expression from being too obvious.

"A group of tsieves took me in," he said, taking care to stay quiet. "I've been living with them and getting food tsrough raids. It seemed to be ze only way I could live…. Zair camp is nearby, by ze river. I tsought I heard sometsing, so I went to go check… I would never 'ave tsought it would be _you_…. If anyone but me 'ad checked, you would be dead." He shuddered to think of that, and Arthur suddenly felt immensely lucky that it had indeed been Francis. "We should leave. Now. Before someone else comes zis way."

Arthur nodded again, this time much more serious. Reluctantly yet quickly, he let go of Francis to pick up his sword and sheath it, and then he grabbed his hand to lead him to where his camp (if you could even call it that) was. Right now, the important thing was getting Francis away from the thief camp.

He didn't care about the fact that Francis had involved himself with rogues, either. He honestly wouldn't have cared if it turned out that Francis had killed anyone—Arthur had already killed one man himself, just to get past a bridge. How could he care about anything but the fact that he had Francis back?

As soon as they made it back to the tree, Arthur promptly went to untie his horse and then climbed on.

"Come on, we should ride out of here while we can," he said as he held a hand out for Francis to climb up with him. He nodded in agreement and did so, then immediately wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist. They both knew it wasn't just to hold on.

Francis leaned in close enough to briefly put his chin on Arthur's shoulder and kiss his cheek. Remembering the first time that had happened, the Prince—no, the _King_—felt his face grow warm, and he smiled. For the first time in months, he really _smiled_, and Francis could tell without having to see his face.

"I am so happy that I have you again," Arthur said shamelessly, briefly covering Francis's hand on his stomach with his own, then turning around for a second to look at him like he was a God.

In the next few seconds, he was pulling the reigns and forcing a somewhat disgruntled horse to ride through the path in the forest.

* * *

**And thus, Francis has returned. But don't think it's over yet - there's still a couple more chapters to wrap this story up, at least!**

**I can't believe it's almost over, though. I'm kind of sad about it... But I'm really grateful for all the feedback from you guys, and I'm glad you've stuck around this far. ^_^**

**As always, I really appreciate reviews. Oh, and for any of my readers in the states, Happy Thanksgiving! (You know, if you actually care about the holiday. I can't really say that I do.)**


	18. Like our first time

**We're getting closer and closer to the end, guys. I was originally going to make this the last chapter and then make an epilogue, but things went differently than expected and this chapter doesn't really have the kind of ending that would end an entire story, so I decided I'll just consider the next one or two chapters part of the normal story and nothing will be called the epilogue. **

* * *

They weren't in so much of a hurry to get back to the castle as they were to get as far away from where the band of thieves was. And as focused Arthur's mind was on the fact that he no longer had to suffer because he had Francis back, he managed to realize, no more than an hour after they'd began riding, that there was a possibility of someone realizing that Francis was not there with them and then riding out to follow them. And if they found Francis with him, they might have dubbed him a traitor and then tried to kill him.

He didn't want to take that risk, not after he'd only just gotten him back. He wasn't going to lose him again—and to a bunch of thugs no less.

For a while, neither of them said anything. It was partly because it was easier to focus on riding when one wasn't talking and partly because they really didn't need to say anything for now. Francis just held onto Arthur like his life depended on it and put all his focus into feeling him—he pressed his face into Arthur's back and continued to breathe in his scent, for it felt like forever since he'd touched him. He simply couldn't get enough of him—Arthur was almost like a novelty, now.

And the man on the receiving end certainly didn't neglect to notice. It was a pain for him that he couldn't reach back, and that he had to act like, for the most part, nothing was happening behind him.

In spite of the possible thieves tailing them, Arthur was glad once it proved that horses couldn't go extremely long without any water or food. The light was dim and the air slightly foggy when he was forced to stop the reigns near the river and slide off the horse, taking Francis with him.

When he was finally able to look him straight in the face again, the Frenchman gave him a sleepy smile. It was clear that he was tired from the lack of sleep, but also that he was fighting to stay awake—for him. That much was obvious anyway, as everything he did was for him.

"…Your hair's gotten longer," was the first thing Arthur thought to say, once he got a good look at Francis's face. He hadn't been able to see it all that well several hours ago, when they had reunited in the dark.

"I see yours 'as too…," Francis said softly, laughing and stretching his small smile a bit. He raised a hand to lightly tug at the hair that was hanging down to the base of Arthur's neck. "…Once we return to ze castle, I can cut it for you."

Arthur almost immediately frowned, though he couldn't quite bring himself to swat Francis's hand away. Mostly because his own hands were now too busy running themselves through Francis's hair, which now reached a couple inches down his back. "You'll do no such thing."

Chuckling, Francis let his fingers dive in to feel Arthur's hair as well. It had been so long since they'd touched each other… or even been in each other's presence. And even his hair was something special, precious to him. It was just as messy and seemingly unmanageable as ever—either that, or it was just because of the fact that he'd been away from the castle for a few days.

With both sets of hands in each other's hair, the two of them simply held the other's gaze with a look of near awe—awe, still, that this was even happening. It felt like a dream. And if it was, then neither of them wanted to wake up.

Francis finally pulled Arthur forward for a kiss, and it turned from soft to hard and desperate and _I missed you, dear God I missed you,_ in seconds.

After they broke apart, they came together twice more before pulling back completely, and Arthur realized he was swaying a little in Francis's arms. Breathlessly, he said, "_Je ne vais pas te laisser me quitter encore_."

"I would never even try…," he whispered, breathing deeply as he held Arthur's face, but then furrowed his brow slightly. "You've gotten better in your French," he observed.

For a moment, the look in Arthur's eyes was almost ashamed. Suddenly, he remembered everything—every moment he had gone through since they'd been caught together, and he didn't want to think of it. But he knew he would have to tell Francis at some point.

"I—yes…. My father had Gwenllian teach me," he admitted, his voice shaking a bit already as Francis watched his face with slight worry and confusion. "Ever since she arrived a month ago, she's been taking your place for lessons. I hated it."

A stab of jealousy burned in Francis's heart momentarily at the mention of that woman—not because he actually had any worries, even in the back of his mind, that she was anything to Arthur, but simply because she had gotten to be near him and he hadn't. Now that the former King was dead, though….

"'As she just left, now zat you're not marrying her?" he wondered aloud, and Arthur's eyes widened slightly—and almost… alarmingly? "Or 'ave you even told 'er so yet?"

At that, Arthur's expression became a grave and apologetic one. He met Francis's confused look with a resigned swallow and immediately grabbed his arms near the elbows. He then blinked, and he took his time with it.

"…I am still going to marry her," Arthur forced himself to say, hating the words in his throat and wishing they didn't have to be true—and that Francis didn't have to look at him with such shock. But he continued, and explained as quickly as he could. "I have no choice, Francis…. If I bring you back to the castle and send Gwenllian on her way back home, everyone—including Gwen and her father—will believe that _I_ was the one who killed my father, and that I did it simply to call off the marriage… and I wasn't! I have absolutely no idea who did it…. But if people of a noble standing were to get that idea, I could be overthrown. There could be mutiny within my own kingdom, and I might be forced to cede the throne. _And my kingship is the only thing keeping you _alive_ and with me, so my only choice is to marry Gwenllian._ I swear on my life, Francis, this marriage will mean nothing to me but the fact that it will let me keep you."

As afraid as Arthur had been that Francis would become angry or defensive, Francis himself thought that he needn't go into such a lengthy explanation or get so worked up. He understood this easily—he'd been ready to remain with Arthur during his marriage before all this had happened, anyway. Even if that would have made him a sort of a mistress.

Rather than saying anything, Francis simply nodded to show that he understood. In the silence, he looked, for a moment, over to the horse that was still drinking from the river. Just making sure that they were still alone. Slowly, and still without speaking, he began lowering himself to sit on the ground and took Arthur with him. He didn't even really have to try—they seemed to be able to speak to each other through mere looks.

"What's been happening while I was gone?"

Arthur had expected that question. And really, he wanted to know the same of Francis, but he didn't want to tell him of all the torture he had gone through. He didn't want to speak of all that and remember it vividly, in the first place, and he also just didn't want Francis to know about it. He didn't want to be the man who told others of problems that were already fixed. There was just no use in telling him. So he tried to ignore those memories and cut out all the torture from his story.

If you could even call it a story. Once all the normal daily events and the torture was cut out, there wasn't much left but "Nothing changed very much at all, really, except I wasn't allowed to leave the castle but for sword practice. And without you there… I had no idea what to do with myself."

Arthur looked back up at Francis, who was half-hugging his knees and looking at him like he knew there was more to it.

"Did zey… _do_ anytsing to you, Arthur?" he asked, leaning forward sounding nearly terrified of what the answer was going to be.

There were still thin, white scars on his arms that Francis would find eventually and half-deafness in his right ear because of the waterlogging, but he immediately decided not to tell him anyway. There was no getting around a simple question like that, though.

"…Yes, they did. But—it's over now, and I'd rather not speak about it," he said quickly, turning a bit away from him so that he didn't have to look. He could just imagine the fawning and worrying Francis would do over him if and once he found out about exactly what had been done, and that was a main reason he didn't want to say it right now. There was no room for grim recounts of torture right now anyway, not now that they were in each other's presence for the first time in over two months.

In the next few seconds, he felt a soft pair of lips on his cheek near his jaw and a hand on his shoulder blade.

"While I was living with ze ozzer tsieves, I kept tsinking about 'ow I could 'ave done better," Francis started saying, his voice soft and quiet. Arthur turned to look at him, a small, quizzical frown on his face. "I could 'ave tried 'arder to keep it all a secret. It was my fault we—"

Francis suddenly felt a sharp slap on his face, and Arthur was turned around and frowning at him.

"Shut up—don't blame yourself, you git. You're always so arrogant, and then you're suddenly full of self-loathing? No, just no. Don't bloody hate yourself for something you didn't even do." Arthur's voice was too serious for comfort. He continued to stare at him, and Francis took a second or so of silence to respond.

"But I—"

"Francis, it's not your fault!—It's… it's mine." Only realizing it as he said it, Arthur felt a sudden lump in his throat and shakiness in his arms. The man across from him stared with wide, questioning eyes, and he looked like he was about to argue if Arthur didn't go on. "Right before my father died… Peter told me. He'd seen us together in the castle gardens. And that—it only happened once. We only risked a kiss in the gardens _once_, and the choice was mine. I made the choice that ended with Peter telling a servant and that servant telling my father, and had us come looking for us…. I-it's _my_ fault…" His voice started shaking there, as he realized what he nearly caused. "…that you were almost hanged."

Arthur just sat there, staring at his hands like they had blood on them. He didn't feel worthy of Francis's touches, anymore. He didn't even move his arms when Francis shifted forward to hug him tightly.

"_Mon amour…_ one of us was bound to be a bit reckless," he whispered, now practically cradling a horrified Arthur. "I didn't refuse ze kiss… so ze fault lies with both of us. We are togezzer now, and zat is ze important tsing, is it not? Notsing else matters." Although, Francis couldn't say that he didn't feel a burning hatred for Peter at the moment.

Feeling Arthur's body begin to soften up in his arms, Francis laid kisses across his cheek until he finally got to his mouth for a slightly longer one and pulled back. After a moment of silence, Arthur asked him to tell him more about what he'd been doing for the past two months.

There were actually several stories to tell on his end. Living with thieves meant a considerable amount of adventure and violence, and he had several raids to recall.

"Zat dagger you gave me saved my life at least twice," Francis told him. "I tsink it must be lucky."

"You—you still have it?" Arthur couldn't say he'd expected him to lose it, but he still looked at him in awe, feeling happier than before.

"Of course," he said as though it were obvious, reaching for his boot and pulling it out. A ribbon was tied to the handle.

"…Is that the hair ribbon I gave you all those months ago?" Arthur asked quietly, taking the dagger and fingering the slightly frayed ends of the ribbon. He couldn't quite explain how he felt about Francis having kept both of those things, but he couldn't breathe for several seconds. That was something.

"_Oui_. I figured it would be ze best way to make sure I didn't lose it. Ze ozzer men and even some of ze women teased me for 'aving a ribbon on my knife…," he added, chuckling a bit.

"Did you… tell them? About me, I mean."

"Zey asked why I was in exile and I told zem I 'ad stolen sometsing from ze King, but it wasn't rightfully 'is, anyway. It made zem like me, and… well. It was true."

Arthur inhaled deeply and stared down at the dagger for a few seconds more before slipping it back into Francis's boot. Silent for another moment, he reached over to firmly caress the man's jaw in one hand.

"You didn't steal me; I went along willingly. After a point, at least."

* * *

Once the horse was finished replenishing its energy, they continued riding. Now that Arthur had Francis with him, there was no need to stop anywhere but for a single pub they passed in the middle of the afternoon, when they were starving.

And of course they were unlucky enough to happen upon the man who had found Arthur's horse before and then be challenged to a duel in order to see who kept the horse (despite him pointing out that the steed had belonged to him in the first place). Just as he'd beaten the bridgekeeper, besting that peasant was no contest. So it really wasn't all that unlucky after all—just inconvenient and annoying.

A meal of pheasant and some cornmeal bread, and they were up and riding again. Arthur wouldn't have been so keen to get back to the castle if there were absolutely no dangers on this side of the Thames, or if he knew that no one would suspect him and Francis of anything if they were to share a room in an inn. At the speed they were riding and the lack of stops they were taking, they managed to reach the now-empty bridge less than an hour after nightfall. They were tired and hungry still, but they were nearly home and relieved for it.

Hardly any peasants were out of their huts at this hour, but those who were were most certainly staring at them as they rode through the village. For once, Arthur finally saw the guards at the front gate show some emotion when he and Francis strode through and into the entrance hall—surprise.

When they walked into the dining hall, Gwenllian and several others were waiting at the table. They twisted in their seats and half-stood up to see him, and then they looked to Francis. Arthur could see Gwenllian frown at him, though not necessarily with anger. He couldn't be sure what it was, exactly. Francis looked back, seeming almost apologetic. Seemed he was just as sorry for the woman's position as Arthur was.

Though no one outwardly expressed it, there was an air in the room that told them both that everyone in there knew about Francis's situation now. Arthur could practically hear Gwenllian's thoughts, or what they must have been: _My future husband and the King of England loves _men_. He'll never even be the slightest bit attracted to me._ He wondered if she was actually jealous, or just angry.

Rather than continuing straight on with Francis up the stairs like he wanted to, or approaching his family and future queen and knights like he should have, Arthur stopped in his tracks for a moment and didn't even turn all the way to face them.

"It is very late," he said loudly, his voice echoing off the walls and sounding much more like a King's. "You should all retire to your chambers. And if anyone wants a word with me, you can do so come the morning."

Without waiting for a reply or even the shuffle of chairs being pushed out, Arthur took Francis's arm and led him up the stone staircase. He knew they were still staring, and he knew what they were thinking, too, but now that he was King, he actually_ could_ afford to really, _really_ not care what anyone thought.

It felt strange for him, not having been in the castle for so long. And yet he remembered everything about the corridors—he likely would have been able to navigate his way through it without Arthur's help, even. Everything felt slightly vague at the moment, though, because of his tiredness: He practically fell straight onto the bed once they were both in Arthur's room.

"Without even putting nightclothes on first?" he said somewhat teasingly, though a yawn was in his voice. "I would take them off myself, but it would be difficult to get clean clothes back on you, and I'm not sure if you would want to sleep naked."

"Go a'ead," Francis mumbled in a slight laugh, rolling over to smirk at Arthur, who was standing on the other side of the bed and stripping himself of all but his braies, which came down to his knees. His chest flushed with warmth as he watched him undress—not necessarily because he was nearly naked, but more because it was almost like he was seeing Arthur like this for the first time all over again, and he was remembering how he'd felt that time. He didn't even want anything sexual with him tonight—they'd only just found each other again. It wouldn't feel right, just going ahead and doing that now. Especially not when they were this tired.

Arthur looked up from the trousers he'd just let fall to the floor and couldn't help but go slightly red in the face. Francis was still smirking at him, and with the man's body splayed out like that, even though it was fully clothed, he felt his own chest grow very warm, too. He crawled into bed, though, and lazily rolled over to the edge so he could pull off Francis's boots and socks, and then set the dagger aside and moved up to pull the man's tunic off for him, too. At least they were both practically clothed the same, now.

"…It's nice to be in a bed again," Francis mused as he fell back into the pillows and Arthur threw his tunic off the edge of the bed. He smiled softly and rolled onto his side, pulling Arthur down beside him and sliding his arm around his waist. "But I wouldn't mind sleeping on 'ard ground if you were zair."

"Me neither," he agreed.

With one last, soft kiss for the night, they both let themselves nestle into each other and finally fall asleep together. _Finally._

* * *

There was no reason to try exceptionally hard to hide it from anyone, since everyone knew at this point, and they would obviously continue to know no matter what. When the King and his lover arrived for breakfast the next morning, no one commented on Francis's presence at first. Gwenllian seemed to not want to acknowledge a peasant in a dining hall that was meant for nobles—especially not one that sat ahead of her at the table.

Now that Arthur sat at the head of the table, he chose the seating arrangements. He had his mother sit directly to his right, and Francis to his left. His mother was sitting where the King's wife was meant to sit, but he wasn't going to put Francis there (as much as he wanted to) because that would be much too obvious. And then Gwenllian sat next to his mother, and Peter next to Francis.

For the first several minutes of silence, it was obvious what was on the minds of everyone at the table: _Was the wedding off?_ Arthur hadn't told anyone but Francis, and he could only assume that everyone else thought this meant he was no longer going to marry Gwenllian. But he also knew that no one was going to bring it up, as that would require someone to acknowledge the reason behind the wedding being off, and no one was going to say such a thing outright.

"Gwenllian," Arthur finally said, breaking the silence that had been so thick everyone snapped their heads up, "I believe your father meant to arrive precisely three days from now, correct? On the day after I come of age."

"Yes," she said stiffly, and Arthur was sure she was anticipating something along the lines of _"Then it's not too late to tell him not to come."_ She stabbed a piece of ham and looked at him sharply.

"We can still have the wedding on that day, then. I had thought I would arrive back at the castle with Francis much later."

Everyone's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Francis, as apparently no one had expected him to do it. No one seemed sure what to do at that point, and yet Arthur went on eating with a casual air that reminded him of his father. He hated himself briefly, but he supposed that just came with being King. Especially when one wanted to make a point, for his status as King was enough to get any point across, so he didn't need to even look directly at anyone. That was the power of being a King.

And he wanted to establish, however taboo and indecent it may have seemed, that Francis was back to stay and he was not to be disrespected or ignored. He wanted to make sure that Gwenllian knew that even though he would be marrying her, Francis was still much more important.

"Oh, also, Gwenllian—you won't be teaching me French anymore, even on your own time. Now that Francis has returned, he will resume being my tutor."

That was almost gasp-worthy, though no one made a single noise. Until Gwenllian seemed to involuntarily move her fork against her plate to make a _clink_.

"What a eccentric man you are," she began, her voice sounding ironically cheerful, "to go mucking around in the woods to search for a French tutor." She gave a—mocking?—laugh and continued eating while Peter looked between them, his expression scandalized and eager to watch the argument that was likely to develop.

"I would call it being a loyal friend," Francis said unexpectedly, glancing up at her seriously.

She didn't respond, but Arthur nuzzled his leg against Francis's under the table.

* * *

"Arthur wilt though have this woman to thy wedded wife, wilt he love her, and honor her, keep her and guard her, in health and in sickness, as a husband should a wife, and forsaking all others on account of her, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will."

It was very much a lie on Arthur's part. He was agreeing for this woman to have an official marriage recognized by the Church and have merely the title of his wife and Queen. That was it. Everything else meant nothing, and he was not truthfully agreeing to do any more than that. And this was obvious to Gwenllian, too, it seemed.

The wedding wasn't extravagant by any means. Though it was a wedding that meant the bond and peace between England and Wales, Arthur hadn't cared to prepare immensely for it. Traditional décor was in the main hall, and most of the country's Lords, as well as relatives of Gwenllian, were seated to watch. Francis was in the front row, and whenever Arthur couldn't help but glance over at him, he would give him a look that said _It's okay, you don't need to be sorry for doing what you have to do as a King._

The priest then said the same to Gwenllian, and she agreed. Then they had to say their damned vows.

Arthur refused to say something directly to her that wasn't true, so instead of the traditional vows, he simply said, "I dearly hope this marriage will keep peace between our two kingdoms." As a King, he could get away with that. But even then, it was forced.

"And I, too."

It seemed she had nothing else to say for her vows. The following seconds of silence felt awkward—though it was preferable to what the priest was about to say:

"By the power invested in the Church of England, I pronounce you husband and wife, King and Queen. You may now kiss the bride."

This was one of those things he couldn't get away with not doing. Not really because of a Church law, but more that several people who had no idea about Francis would think it very strange if the King didn't kiss his wife even on the wedding day. But he dreaded it horribly, and he truly could not help but hesitate before leaning forward and kissing her.

It was more like brushing his lips against hers very briefly—though it wasn't brief enough for him to forget it immediately. He had to force himself not to look disgusted when he stood straight again.

Later that evening, he didn't really try to avoid expressing his disgust, though.

"The marriage must be consummated, and you need an heir, Arthur," Gwenllian pressed, pointing shamelessly into his face as he scowled and tried yet again to walk away.

"I'm not ready for this," he told her for the fourth time, his voice having gotten louder and angrier. He really wasn't. Not now, just—if he had to do it, please, just wait a week. _Please._

"Get it over with now, and I shall never ask again."

So she wasn't going to bring up Francis. Huh. He'd have figured that she would.

No, he simply _couldn't_ do it… not when he had already given himself to Francis. Just the thought of it felt wrong, even if he did want an heir himself. It felt like adultery—no, it _would_ have been adultery. He didn't want that kind of intimacy with anyone else.

But he also knew it was a duty that he would have to do sooner or later. So with a few more seconds of him wrestling with his own thoughts, he resentfully agreed and followed her to her chambers.

To keep the lack of intimacy, Arthur told her to remove only her breeches and nothing else, and when he had himself ready enough on the bed with her, he closed his eyes and pretended it was Francis.

* * *

He wasn't surprised to see Arthur practically burst into their chambers later and slam the door, breathing shakily as he made his way to their bed.

"F-Francis, I… I—"

"I know," he said simply, straightening himself up on the bed and gripping Arthur's arm reassuringly. He ignored the jealousy that burnt in his chest, for he knew it was irrational to feel.

"I _had_ to," Arthur strained to say, feeling it very important that he get across that fact. "I didn't want to. It meant nothing. But I need an heir—"

"_Arthur_, I understand." Francis took his face in his hands and gave him a look to force him to realize that he didn't need to be so sorry. It didn't seem to change him much, but only for a second.

"It still feels awful," he said, holding onto him in return. "I feel disgusting…. I—I need you, tonight. I need you…."

Nodding somewhat dazedly, Francis allowed Arthur to flip them over so that he was lying on his back and Francis was above him. He could only kiss him a few times, though, before Arthur grabbed his face by both sides and made enough space in between their faces that they could really make eye contact.

"Make love to me…," he said rather breathily, almost urgently. "Slowly. Like our first time."

Thinking back to that night all those weeks ago, Francis felt his heart beat faster, and he nodded again. He wanted nothing more than to have Arthur right now, to be as close to him as possible, to rid both of them, if only temporarily, of even the memory of Gwenllian.

Which he did.

* * *

**Translation: **

**_Je ne vais pas te laisser me quitter encore_. - I won't let you leave me again.**

**(I got this off Google translate because I don't speak French, so I'm sorry if that's totally wrong. If any native French speakers want to correct me and tell me the real French translation for that, that would be great.)**

**Oh, also, I mentioned braies in another chapter, but I don't think I explained them - they're basically medieval underwear. The more you know. **

**And for those of you who've been asking about Allistor and who poisoned the King and all that, don't get your knickers in a twist, everything'll be cleared up in the last chapter(s). I was going to refrain from saying even that, just to keep you in suspense, but I figure I should tell you guys.**

**As always, I'd love it if you guys reviewed, and thank you to those who've reviewed/followed/favorited so far!**


	19. You may now kiss the King

**And here we are, at the last chapter. I'm sorry it took an extra week to update, but I was working on a Homestuck cosplay all last week and didn't really have time. **

**But yes. The last chapter. I'm actually kind of sad to end this... but I hope you guys are satisfied with how it turns out.**

* * *

The new King and his lover became common knowledge soon enough, though everyone kept silent about it. Arthur was aware of this, too; he knew that his knights, and perhaps even Peter, had been spreading the rumors (however true they were, they were still rumors) in the village. He knew that many people must have looked upon him and thought that he did not deserve to be King, or they thought that he was a disgusting sinner. But no one had called him out publicly yet, for he was the bloody _King of England_ and no one man, especially not a peasant, could do anything.

And really, no one was going to try to oust him from his throne simply for having a male lover. It wasn't going to affect the way he ruled, even if it was truly a sin.

Except Arthur did know that his love for Francis was, in fact, going to change one thing:

"While I rule, it'll be a relatively good life for other men like us," he told Francis softly, when the man had asked him what he wanted to change. "I won't allow them to hang. I don't care what the Church has to say."

"Women, too," added Francis, and Arthur looked to him. "Zair are women like us, too, you know."

"Of course I know that," Arthur snapped, frowning and trying to hide the slight stutter from his guilt at neglecting to mention that.

"Sometimes, I tsink you forget zat women exist entirely," Francis chuckled, leaning over and putting his arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Just because you are not attracted to zem, it does not mean you 'ave to 'ate zem…."

"Frankly, I hate just about everyone," he said dryly, ignoring the Francis draped over his shoulder and leering at him.

"Even me?"

"Especially you."

Francis smirked and pulled Arthur's face closer for a kiss.

* * *

Even after a full month of Francis having been back, not a single person even approached Arthur about him. The Frenchman continued to sit directly to the left of the King at every meal, and the two of them always shared a bed while Gwenllian had her room to herself.

They had a feeling she was upset about her husband having a lover and not even being very discreet about it, despite the fact that she probably wasn't all that interested in him, either. And they were right, though she gradually got used to it and came to terms with her position of merely standing off to the side and practically not existing.

She watched them, and she knew everything. She saw the way that Arthur would look at Francis when he thought that he was paying attention to his dinner and not looking, and she saw how he would blush when Francis looked back at him, like he simply couldn't help it. She noticed that they did everything together—even if Arthur was dealing with important royal matters, Francis was there, by his side.

Soon, she started to care less and less that Francis was a man. Those two were by far closer than any man and his wife could ever be, and yet they did nothing that a man and a woman didn't do.

Once, Gwenllian had done something she shouldn't have and hid so that she could watch her husband and his lover in the corridors, just to see if she could understand. She caught Francis kissing Arthur on the nose, and his mouth had stretched into the biggest smile. Over a nose kiss. A nose kiss! It seemed so small and peculiar, but such a thing somehow made Arthur so happy as to smile in a way that _she_ had never seen him before.

She realized she should stop spying on them and just leave them be. She should have been happy with where she was—even if she was not the one sharing King Arthur's bed every night, she was still his Queen, and still holding the peace between Wales and England. That was her purpose, she supposed. And she would have to deal with that because she was lucky to have been born into a royal family in the first place.

Although, she viewed Francis's constant presence as a free invitation to go and find a lover for herself—perhaps in one of the knights, or maybe even a servant. It wouldn't matter to Arthur or anyone else, as it could never be as bad (in everyone else's eyes) as the King being with a man.

She rarely even talked to Arthur. Oftentimes Gwenllian felt like she didn't even exist to him, or that they were simply strangers to each other. They had their own separate lives, and at this point, they might as well not even have been married but for formality. Instead, she sometimes found company in Arthur's mother, who enjoyed talking to her, and occasionally also knights who tried to flirt with her.

There was one, in fact, who took a chance to walk with her to her chambers one night and remain outside, talking with her, for the longest time.

_Yeah, that could work._

* * *

The former King's chambers had gone untouched by anyone but Sophia, Arthur's mother, since his death. Even months later, Arthur refused to go in there. Partly because he wanted to let his mother keep her room, and partly because he didn't want what was once his father's. It was enough that he was basically obligated to wear a crown that had spent so many years atop that man's head, as well as more extravagant and layered tunics than before. At least Francis enjoyed being able to pull all of those off of him.

So Arthur just continued to use his own chambers. He was already so used to it, so he had no problem staying there. Any and all of his kingly business was done on his desk, as well as the French lessons that still continued.

He was quickly learning all the real responsibilities of a King. Though his father had routinely informed him of all of this when he was alive, it was still a bit overwhelming to have to deal with all the affairs of the entire kingdom. He was now constantly worried something complicated was going to happen that he wouldn't be able to handle, or that some sort of war would be waged on them… despite the fact that there weren't even any signs of it.

In four months, Arthur had already signed a revised treaty between England and Wales to secure the peace, discussed trading issues with representatives from Scotland, and sentenced two men who had been brought before him in the court.

Sentencing people was something that he soon learned he was probably the best at. He had no emotions for those people and no pity, so he was never wishy-washy with the law. Those men had stolen animals, anyway. They deserved the floggings.

Still, however, it was a great deal of stress on him. Now that his duties were more extensive, his free time to go to his spot in the forest and speak with the faeries was rather limited. Especially considering that there wasn't much room for him to leave the castle terribly often. At least he had a mother and a Queen to look after everything when he left.

Every other day, Arthur would take Francis with him to go visit Lilley, Cherami, and Tinker again. They were all very excited to suddenly see him again, and they automatically bombarded him with questions of where he had been for all this time.

He really hadn't wanted to tell them, but they could sense his regret and the hurt in his memories anyway, so he'd had to. Lilley had looked like she was about to cry after he explained, and the other two clung to his and Francis's faces, as though they were hugging them. It was all in all rather awkward.

But after that, the visits had become regular again, and things actually seemed to be returning to normal. Aside from him being King, anyway.

Arthur still arranged weekly sword practice, but now with Francis. They had a bit of trouble staying focused on the task a lot of the time, as they did with everything once they began arguing over petty things and getting into small, harmless fights. After they'd been back at the castle for no more than a few weeks, their relationship had already started going back to that and entirely becoming what it used to be. They still loved it like that. It was actually even useful for keeping Arthur from becoming so stressed.

Headaches still came, though. So did nightmares. Arthur had had too much trauma in the past year to have a clear mind, and he'd expected this. His head would begin throbbing at the most inappropriate of times, and it wasn't rare for him to wake up and involuntarily jolt out of Francis's arms because of a terrible dream. Often, they had to do with either or both of them being hanged or killed or tortured in some other way.

And _always_, Francis held him and rubbed soothing circles on his back while he was still in a cold sweat, and kissed his head until the pain was gone.

"I'm not sure if I like being King," Arthur muttered one morning while Francis held him around his chest, keeping the blanket up. His eyes were mostly closed, and his voice held the signs of pain and irritability. Surprised at the sudden statement, Francis pulled back to look at him. "I obviously don't want to lose you, but—I just…. Sometimes, I think Allistor would be doing a much better job."

Francis understood. There was really no need to explain himself—he knew Arthur didn't mean he didn't want what _came _with being King. But he'd known for a while now how paranoid that man could be. As for the last part, though, he frowned slightly.

"You've mentioned 'im before… but I don't tsink you ever really told me about your older brozzer. What 'appened?" He'd been afraid to ask before, but he felt he had every right to ask, now. They were close enough.

Arthur sighed, but relented. No one outside of the family knew the whole story, but he supposed that was about to change. Francis was more than family to him, now.

"Well, he just… left. You know that much. He and my father were on a hunting trip, and Allistor rode off sometime during it. Everyone thought he had just seen something and gone after it alone, but he never came back. My father sent men to search for him, but no one ever found him, dead or alive. After a year, we just finally assumed he was dead and that his body was mutilated somewhere. I thought he might have just run away, though. To get away from kingly responsibilities, you know."

_Oh._ Francis couldn't help but be sad. Even if he'd never known the man, he knew how bad it was to lose a family member. Even if Arthur himself didn't seem like he cared all that much. Because he was probably just hiding it, anyway.

"…What was 'e like?" Francis wondered, shifting his hold on Arthur a bit.

"Mean," he said immediately, frowning. "He was a bully. When I was very little, I brought a rabbit back to the castle once, as a pet, and he killed it. Not in front of me, mind you, but he just thought it would be funny. But to Father, he was still somehow the favorite child…. Which I still think was weird, because I'm fairly sure my mother must have had an affair to conceive him. His hair was too reddish to be my father's."

"You shouldn't speak ill of ze dead," Francis told him after a second, still finding that sad. A dead family member was one thing, but to hold a grudge against the dead? Arthur's father, he could understand. That man had put them both through torture. But Allistor hadn't really done anything worth deserving death.

"I'm not speaking ill of him; I'm describing him. That's just what he was like. I like to think he'd have matured, though."

"Hm."

That was better, at least. Francis didn't like it when Arthur was so cynical, however much he loved him.

"Well," Francis started softly, moving his face closer to Arthur's again, "I tsink you'll be a fine King in ze years to come. After a while, I'm sure ze nightmares will stop…."

"Yes, I do hope so."

As they detached themselves from each other and began to dress, Francis once again neglected to tell him that _he_ had nightmares, too.

* * *

In the following month, Arthur began to notice his mother more and more. Since her husband's death, she had never really seemed as sad as she should have been, though she had cried at the funeral. For a while, he'd just figured it was her shock keeping her from expressing much, but as he started to observe her more closely, well… her behavior did seem kind of odd.

At times, she would mention Edward seemingly on accident and then look sad—but after a while, Arthur noticed that it looked more than sad. It looked almost… guilty. He never asked her about it.

And then there was Francis. She didn't seem to mind talking to him at all—she never threw a weird look his way, and she'd even joked with him, once, about Arthur needing to cut his hair and which one of them should do it (neither of them had cut it so far, though). It all made him gradually more suspicious. He never shared those suspicions with Francis, but they were getting stronger. Especially considering that his father's murder was still unsolved.

One day, Arthur finally forced himself to ask. He knew it could potentially make his mother very angry or very sad, but he simply needed to know. He'd been waiting for someone to come up front and admit it for too long. So in the evening of that day, he took his mother to the side when she was leaving the dining table and looked her straight in the eye, trying not to hesitate.

"…Mother," he started, allowing himself a pause because making a question like this casual would have been uncomfortable, "was it _you_ who poisoned Father?"

She looked him dead on with widened eyes for several seconds, and Arthur was about to apologize for such a accusation when she looked down, sighed, and nodded.

"I knew what he was doing to you, and I didn't wish to see you so miserable. You're my son, and I love you more than anything—even my husband. I want you to be happy, Arthur."

Looking sadly up at him, she gave a slight smile, guilt still in her expression. Arthur stared back in mixed awe and shock—he would never had expected her to do something like that. And at the same time, he was extremely grateful. Though of course he didn't want to say anything along the lines of _"Thank you for killing him."_

"So… you approve of Francis?" he forced out as a follow-up question, having had this in mind to ask for a while. "You don't think what I do with him is wrong."

She smiled sadly again and glanced at the floor for a second. "I was in love with a woman once, Arthur," she admitted in a breath, as though she was scared to say such a thing. "I know how this is."

With that, she wordlessly pulled him in for a hug, which Arthur reciprocated in a sudden burst of affection for his mother, and then pulled back and held his face in her hands, squishing his cheeks together like he was a young child. Arthur frowned, about to protest that he wasn't a child anymore, but—

"You're going to make a fine King, Arthur, I know it."

* * *

Arthur made sure to be there when Gwenllian was giving birth. He and Francis stood to the side while Arthur's mother held her hand so she could grip it tight in her pain, and another helped bring out the newborn infant. It was rather disgusting, but at the same time fascinating, to watch. Francis was more on the fascinated side than he was, though.

As expected, it was crying when it took its first breath of air. One of the women declared it a boy and handed him to Gwenllian, and all seemed to be over until she convulsed and screamed in pain again and handed the baby back to the servant.

"It's another one," the servant woman said, looking under Gwenllian's skirt. Everyone's eyes widened.

"A-_another_ one?" Arthur sputtered, looking back and forth between them. Twins weren't unheard of, but it wasn't common, and for it to happen in a royal family was bad. In order to decide which of them would end up taking the throne, one would have to end up proving himself more than the other through a series of tasks—or worse, one might just end up killing the other. He didn't want that to happen.

Well, unless the second one turned out to be a girl. But after another scream-filled five minutes, the second one proved to also be a boy, and Arthur's heart sunk. Not that he didn't immediately love them both, but he didn't want the chaos that would inevitably happen. Many men would have said that the logical thing to do was smother one of them now—but he couldn't do that either. There was no way he could do that.

Soon, Gwenllian was calm and holding both of the new twins. Next to Arthur, Francis was tearing up a bit.

"The devil are you crying for, they're not even your children!" he asked him with an annoyed tone, hitting his arm with the back of his hand.

"Childbirth is a beautiful tsing, Arthur," Francis said seriously, looking at the babies and smiling. "Two new lives were created, just now! 'Ow are you not amazed?"

Well, it was partially because he'd helped create them, and he hadn't wanted to, so all this was reminding him of that. But he wasn't going to say that in front of everyone.

"I _am_… sort of," he huffed, curling his lip for a moment before walking over to the head of the bed Gwenllian was in, and reaching out to take one of the babies. Once in Arthur's arms, he actually stopped crying for the most part and looked up at him with the brightest little blue eyes. He thought they looked a lot like Francis's.

"I like the name Alfred," he said, more to the baby than anyone else. "Like Alfred the Great. Yes, that'll fit you nicely…. And, it's only fair that you name the other one," he told Gwenllian, looking to her.

She looked at the gradually calming baby in her arms for a few seconds in pensive silence, and then said, "Oh, I'm horrible with coming up with names. And any Welsh names of significance to me wouldn't fit—he's going to live in England, after all. Why doesn't Francis name him?"

At once, Francis looked over to her in awe, and walked slowly toward her on the other side of the bed.

"Wha—I… _really_?" he breathed, unable to believe that she was really allowing him to do this. She handed him the other baby, and he cradled him in his arms, looking at the precious thing like it was made of gold. "But 'e is your baby—"

"It's fine," she insisted, though almost sounding like she regretted it. _You're probably going to end up being a second father to him, anyway, _she thought resignedly.

After several seconds of silence and Francis's awed smile, he looked up at the both of them and said, "Matthieu. It 'as no real significance… but it means 'gift from God.' I tsink it'll fit 'im."

Arthur couldn't help but smile, though he quickly hid it by saying, "Well, at least you chose a name that's not entirely French."

He chuckled at that and went back to grinning at Matthieu. "'E's probably going to end up being a lot like me."

Before Arthur could say anything, his mother butted in from the other side of the bed, chuckling as well.

"Better like you than grumpy and rude like Arthur…."

"_Mum!_"

* * *

**Five Years Later**

"Do you suppose we might still get married some day?"

The King jerked his eyes away from the parchment in front of him and over to the man leaning on the wall and staring out the window, and narrowed his eyes.

"Hm? What are you on about, you lunatic?"

Arthur really didn't know why he was bringing it up all of a sudden. It had been years since they last spoke about this—he was now growing in a bit of a goatee, and the twins were five. Why wait so long to bring it up again—and something like this, at that? Marriage between two men was still impossible.

"I was just tsinking—"

"And it's taken you nearly six years, apparently."

"Shut up," he said, turning around and smirking wryly. "I know you're obviously already married, and ze Church would by no means allow us to be recognized… but what if we just did it ourselves? Alone. We say ze vows and exchange ze rings and consider ourselves married."

There were a couple seconds of silence, and then Arthur left his work and stood up from the desk, walking over to Francis and frowning.

"Why did you wait so long to mention it again?—Or did you just forget?"

Laughing slightly, he pushed his hair out of his face and took small steps toward Arthur as well, until they were chest to chest and Arthur's face gained a shade of red.

"I didn't forget, _mon amour_…. I just didn't tsink of zis idea until now. Do you want to do it?"

The softly questioning tone, along with the small smile and Francis's hand brushing the side of his face, made his chest grow warm like he was once again seventeen and inexperienced. His face flushed a bit more, and he sputtered when he spoke.

"I—well—I've already got your ring, and—just, well—what's the bloody purpose of it?" he said in attempted annoyance, his voice growing more and more high-pitched as he went, as well as his eyes continuing to avert Francis's. "You're my lover, and you're never going to be taken away again, so what do we need to be married for? If it's just between us, what's it going to matter?"

"It'll matter to us," he pressed, leaning closer. "I want it official. At least to us."

"But it won't even _be_ official—"

"It won't be recognized by ze Church, but zat doesn't mean—"

"This is ridiculous! We're both men, who's ever heard of—?"

"You're not fooling me, Arthur," Francis cut him off firmly, yet somehow still with his usual charm. "I know you want zis, 'owever stupid it seems to you…. Let's be stupid togezzer, forever."

For several seconds, Arthur just stared at the dumb grin on Francis's face before he kissed it. They weren't yet parted when Francis managed to work the ring off his finger, and when they could look in each other's eyes once more, Arthur stepped away momentarily to find a ring—any ring would do, and he had plenty—and then bring it back to him.

"So… you really want to marry me?" Francis said breathlessly, just to make sure.

"Of-bloody-course I do—you just said I did yourself, you git," Arthur said in frustration, holding the collar of Francis's tunic in one hand and gripping the ring tight in the other. His brow furrowed, and his mouth gaped for a second while he was at a loss for what to say. "…I love you."

That brought a smile that reached Francis's eyes before it reached his lips. "_Je t'aime aussi_. Let's promise to spend ze rest of our lives togezzer…."

"I've already promised you that. Can I announce us married now?"

"We need to put ze rings on first…," Francis sighed, amused by Arthur's impatience but hurrying to put the ring back on his finger and then waiting impatiently himself as Arthur did the same for him afterward. "Okay. Now you can say it."

His throat was suddenly too swollen for him to speak properly at once, and he didn't know why. It wasn't even an official marriage, dammit….

"I now pronounce us man and… husband?" Huh. He hadn't thought much of how he would say that.

And Francis's lips were already on his before he could say _"You may now kiss the King."_

* * *

**I hope that wraps everything up! Once again, I'm sad to see this story's end, but at the same time I'm proud of myself. I kind of want to just print out this whole fic and make it into a little mini-book, just for myself. **

**Don't fear, though! This doesn't mean the LMBaS universe is completely over. I'll still probably make fanart for it sometimes, and I'll likely end up doing oneshot side-fics because I still have all these ideas for stuff that happens later on - ergo, when Francis and Arthur are older, when the twins grow up, when the Hundred Years' War starts, etc. **

**If any of you have tumblrs and haven't done so yet, you should follow me so you know when I make new stuff. The link to my blog is in my profile.**

**And now that the main story is over, I'd love it if you all left just one last review to tell me what you thought of this overall. It's been an awesome several months with you guys, and I hope that some of you go on to read my other/future stories. Thank you so much to everyone who's left feedback on and/or followed this story, too!**


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